


The Dance at the Crossroads

by Gefionne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Romance, Warden Alistair/Female Brosca (mentioned), some sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/pseuds/Gefionne
Summary: A long ride from Haven brings Fynn Trevelyan, the reluctant Herald of Andraste, to the Hinterlands, where he encounters stalwart Scout Lace Harding. As he navigates the chaotic fallout of the mage rebellion and the rise of the Inquisition, he finds solace in their infrequent meetings: first friendship and then far more.
Relationships: Lace Harding/Male Inquisitor, Lace Harding/Male Trevelyan
Comments: 26
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story when I first played DA:I in 2015, but thankfully didn't have the hubris to post. It only took me 5 years to finish it, and boy, was it ever a joy.

###  **The Hinterlands, Ferelden**

Five days of dusty travel on narrow, dirt tracks had taken Fynn Trevelyan from the village of Haven to the Inquisition’s forward camp in the eastern Hinterlands. It was the farthest he had ventured into Ferelden, having seen only the road from Highever to the Temple of Sacred Ashes on his journey from the Free Marches.

When he had agreed to escort his eldest sister from the Ostwick Chantry to Divine Justinia’s Conclave, he had not expected to travel beyond it. But now… Now everything was changed, made crooked by the explosion and the deaths of all in attendance, save him.

_Herald of Andraste_ , they called him. The title could not have fallen on a less deserving man. Of all of members of his family, he was the least devout, the one who had most often fallen asleep during recitations of the Chant. Aerona, save for lack of skill with blade or bow, would have been more appropriate.

But that skill was needed by this Herald, and Fynn was glad for the years he’d spent in mounted hunts, wielding his bow with honed precision.

The horse that had carried him in the past days was a plodding thing that had pulled more plows in its life than spent time under saddle. Still, he had taken time to groom and acquaint himself with her before he had tacked her up and swung up onto her back.

His companions, the Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, the elven mage Solas, and a yarn-spinning dwarf by the name of Varric Tethras, had not bothered getting to know their mounts. None of them were particularly skilled riders—especially the dwarf—but their seats had improved since they had ridden out of Haven. Fynn had carefully offered advice, which had fortunately been well-received.

As they dismounted in camp, though, all of them breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Even Fynn, who was accustomed to riding every day, was achy from being in the saddle from sunup to sundown. He was glad for the respite the evening would provide.

“I’ll take your horse, ser,” said a young elven boy in an Inquisition uniform.

“Thank you,” Fynn said as he handed the reins over. He patted the mare on the neck by way of parting for the night. She flicked an ear back at him, but was otherwise content to follow the boy.

“Trevelyan,” said Cassandra, gesturing for him to join her near the campfire that burned at the center of a ring of tents. He strode over, stretching his legs.

Standing beside Cassandra was another Inquisition solider, this one a young dwarf. She was outfitted in a shirt of chainmail over which a clean, if somewhat battered, breastplate was buckled. A hood hung over her shoulders and she wore a sturdy pair of boots. Her hair, red as the distant sunset, was arranged in an intricate plait around her head.

“Fynn Trevelyan,” Cassandra said, “this is Inquisition Scout Harding. She has been gathering information on what is happening here.”

The dwarf inclined her head respectfully. “Herald of Andraste, I’ve heard the stories about you, about the Breach. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“And you, Scout Harding,” said Fynn, making a shallow bow.

“Harding, huh?” said Varric from behind him. “You ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

“I can’t say that I have,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back with prim attentiveness. “Why?”

“You’d be Harding in High— Ah, never mind.”

Cassandra scoffed, rolling her eyes. Varric grinned at her, but Fynn was missing the punchline. Harding was as well, glancing uncertainly between the three of them.

Clearing her throat, she took a step forward. “Herald, we really should get to business. The situation here is pretty dire.”

“Of course,” said Fynn. “Go ahead.”

She began: “You know we came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster?”

“I do.”

“Well, I grew up here, and I had always been told that Dennet’s herds were the strongest and the fastest this side of the Frostbacks.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Fynn said, glancing at their plain horses as they cropped grass from under the nearby trees. “We’re in need of good stock.”

“Indeed, ser,” Harding said. “But with the mage-Templar fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he’s even still alive.”

“And what of Mother Giselle?” asked Cassandra. “We must speak to her as well.”

“She’s at the Crossroads helping refugees and the wounded,” Harding replied. “Our latest reports say that the war’s spread there, too. Corporal Vale and our men are doing what they can to protect the people, but they won’t be able to hold out very long.”

“We should go to the Crossroads first,” said Solas, leaning on his staff. “Lend aid to those who are most in need.”

“I agree,” Cassandra said. “Though we won’t be going tonight. The sun is already setting, and it’s too treacherous to travel at night.”

“You know the terrain, Harding,” said Varric. “Surely you can get us there by moonlight.”

“I could,” she said, “but it’s a new moon. Nowhere near bright enough.”

“Ah, well,” Varric said with a shrug. “I could use a good night’s sleep anyway.”

“You can lay your bedrolls down in that tent,” said Harding, pointing. “And there’s stew if you want it.”

Fynn’s stomach growled at the mention of food. Harding heard it and cocked an auburn eyebrow. Fynn offered a half-smile. “Even heralds have to eat.”

The corners of Harding’s mouth turned up. “I suppose they do. Come help yourself, ser.”

Going to the fireside, Fynn allowed the grizzled solider there to ladle out a helping of hot stew. It smelled of fragrant herbs and spiced meat. Taking up a wooden spoon, he dug into it. For something made in an outskirts camp with only the supplies they carried, it was remarkably good. He said as much to Harding, who had come up beside him.

“We have Herrin to thank for that,” she said, nodding to the man who had dished out the stew. “He used to cook for old King Cailin’s army. Or so he says.”

“I may be a lot of things, miss,” he rumbled, “but I ain’t a liar.”

“And anyone who says different will catch an earful from me,” she said, and Fynn believed her. Herrin grinned, revealing a mouth full of dark, stained teeth.

Fynn ran his tongue along his own teeth, straight but for one tooth that was turned just slightly outward. “Scout Harding,” he said, turning to her. “Could you tell us more about the area? Do you have a map?”

“Not one I can hand to you unfortunately,” she said, “but I can draw it.”

“Please.”

She picked up a stick lying nearby and scratched an X into the dirt at her feet. “Here’s our camp. The Crossroads are northwest of us, through the valley just up the way.” She tipped her head in the direction she meant as she drew a narrow passage with a circle at its edge. “If you leave at daybreak, you’ll be there before the sun’s too high.”

She drew another circle and then a winding road that led to it. “It’s not quite a straight path, but if you keep going north from there, you’ll reach Redcliffe Village. There are traders there and a few craftsmen if you’re need of new shoes for your horses or sharper edges on your blades.”

Farther to the west she drew another long line, slightly straighter than the others. “There’s a river here. Across it you’ll find Dennet’s place.” She looked up at Fynn, the firelight reflecting in her eyes—green. “There are a couple of good places to set up camp as well. You’ll need to. There’s a lot of distance to cover.”

“Noted,” he said.

“It will be slow going,” said Harding. “There are groups of mages and Templars all over the region. If you don’t move quickly and quietly, they’re bound to attack. They don’t like anyone who gets in the way of their fighting.”

“I’ve had about enough of mages _and_ Templars,” said Varric, shaking his head. “Wasn’t the Conclave supposed to put a stop to all this?”

“That was the intention,” Solas said, “but it was destroyed before anything could be resolved.” He looked to Fynn. “Is that not what occurred?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t party to the negotiations, but I heard that nothing was coming of them.”

“You were at the Conclave, but weren’t a part of it?” Harding asked, eyeing him curiously.

“No,” he replied. “My sister Aerona—Mother Aerona of the Ostwick Chantry—was the one sent to attend. I led her escort.”

“But you were there when the Divine was attacked,” Cassandra said, her expression dark.

Fynn frowned. “I don’t remember it clearly.” The Seeker knew that well, but she had not stopped inquiring about whether he yet recalled more. To her consistent disappointment, he did not.

“Well, whatever happened,” said Varric, sensing the tension between Fynn and Cassandra, “it got us into this mess and it looks like we’re the only ones who can get us _out_ of it.”

They fell silent at that, each turning back to their stew. Fynn’s had nearly gone cold already, but he finished it gratefully, even scraping the bowl for the last of it.

“Well,” said Varric, setting his bowl aside. “I’m turning in.”

“As am I,” Solas said. “But I thank you for the fine dinner, Herrin.”

The soldier nodded curtly.

“I suppose I will retire as well,” said Cassandra, standing. “Trevelyan?”

Fynn shook his head. “Not just yet.”

“Very well. Goodnight, Scout Harding. Your report was appreciated.”

“It was my pleasure, Seeker,” she said.

Cassandra followed the others into the tent that had been raised for them, the canvas flap snapping closed behind her. After he had cleared the stew pot, Herrin, too, made his way to his tent, leaving only Fynn and Scout Harding at the fireside.

Fynn sat with his legs crossed in front of him, his sore seat planted in the leaf litter on the ground. He wore a leather quiver across his back, a gift from his mother before she had died. The tooling around the rim was intricately twining roses, some of the blossoms full and others barely budding. She had to have a paid a king’s ransom for it, but gold had never been in short supply for the bannorn.

He took it from over his shoulders, drawing out an arrow and idly testing its tip. It was deadly sharp and a spot of blood beaded on the pad of his thumb.

“That’s a beautiful quiver,” came Scout Harding’s voice from a pace away. She, too, was seated, though on a rotting stump rather than in the dirt. Her gaze was on the quiver, the delicate decoration.

“Thank you,” said Fynn. “I’ve had it since I was a boy.” The fading of the leather in patches—lighter at the edges and rough to the touch—told that story plain enough.

“I heard you were an archer,” Harding continued. “There’s a story that as soon as Cassandra struck your irons to fight, you had a bow in your hands.”

“That’s not actually far from the truth,” Fynn said. “Some of the things I’ve heard are leagues from it, but that part isn’t wrong. I had to defend myself, and I’m a far better shot than swordsman.”

Harding rubbed the back of her neck, under her plaited hair. “I’m hopeless with a blade.”

Fynn saw a dagger at her waist, but no other weapons. “Do you shoot?”

“Yes!” She patted down her Inquisition armor. “You’ve caught me at a rare moment without my bow.”

At the mention, Fynn reached to the place where his own bow lay beside him, strung fresh that morning. Harding’s eyes followed his motion, taking in the recurve, its surface also decorated. The grip was in the shape of a horse’s head, the mouth open so that the arrow rested against its lower teeth. Fynn had commissioned it two years before.

“I sleep with mine these days,” he said. “And now with the Templars fighting the mages all over the countryside… It’s best to have it.”

Harding nodded gravely. “I was truly afraid before the Inquisition,” she said, quiet. “For what would happen to my home, to _everywhere_.” A pause. “But when the Inquisition came, they brought more than just men with swords. There were supplies and able bodies to help put things in some kind of order. They protected the people who needed it.”

“So you joined them?” Fynn asked. “Us, I mean.”

“Sooner than you did,” she replied, a thread of humor in her tone. “I was just a guide for them when they first arrived, but when Charter asked me to join, it was easy to say yes.”

Fynn said, before he thought the better of it, “It must be nice to have had a choice.”

Harding turned to him, a line of concern between her brows. “You aren’t happy that Andraste chose you to be her herald.”

He pressed his lips together, not quite meeting her eyes. He murmured, “I don’t think she chose very well.”

A silence hung between them, and Fynn was beginning to regret admitting that to someone so clearly devoted to the Inquisition. Most dwarves weren’t Andrastrian, but it was possible he had still offended her.

However, when she spoke, it was with thoughtful gravity. “From what I’ve heard of you, you don’t treat the mantle lightly. You have respect for those who truly believe you’re Andraste’s herald, but don’t twist that to any advantage other than the benefit of the Inquisition as a whole. You fought from the very beginning, you helped stop the spread of the Breach, and _that_ was a choice. _Your_ choice.”

Fynn looked sharply up, struck. “I…I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said.

Harding was regarding him levelly, no guile in her face. “Is it true that the mark hurts you?”

He raised his left hand, turning his palm up. There was nothing there now; they were far from a Fade rift. “It can,” he told her. “Sometimes more than others. Solas still doesn’t understand it very well. Nobody does.”

“I can’t wrap my head around magic,” said Harding, seemingly commiserating. “And that’s not just my dwarf blood talking. I was raised on the surface, so I know more about it than a dwarf from Orzammar, but it’s still outside what I really grasp.”

Fynn gave a single forlorn chuckle. “In that, we’re the same. Magic doesn’t run in my family. I’ve never even been to the Ostwick Circle. The first mage I had ever seen was at the Conclave.” He glanced toward the tent were his companions were presumably resting. “Now I see one every day.”

“It’s a wonder to watch them in battle,” said Harding. “If not a little frightening, too.”

“Agreed,” said Fynn. He tapped the grip of his bow. “I’ll stick with this.”

Harding hesitated, but then asked, “May I?” with a gesture toward the bow.

Fynn wouldn’t have allowed most anyone to handle it, but he was willing to hand it to Harding, who had been so forthright with him.

She cradled the bow in her hands, admiring it. It was nearly her height, Fynn reckoned, and far too large to her to use. The weapon he had had as child would have suited her better. He found himself trying to imagine the look of the bow she now carried: stout and serviceable, if not as ornate as his.

“It’s heavy,” she observed. “Even for one this size.”

“I like them heavier,” said Fynn. “A light and slender bow makes me feel as if I’ll splinter it if I draw too hard. This will withstand even my strongest pull.”

Harding plucked lightly at the string. “Do you make these strings yourself?”

“I do. I have a workstead in Ostwick.” He took a moment to mourn its loss. “I’ll have to find another one here.”

“So, you plan to stay, then?” she asked. “With the Inquisition.”

Fynn blinked. “I have a duty,” he said, the first time he had stated it so openly. “Whether or not I was really chosen by Andraste, if I can help put a stop to the fighting, I have to.”

There was the half-smile again, and Fynn felt a tendril of pleasure unfurl in his belly. She was pretty, he thought, and the first woman he’d noticed as such in a long while. His mind had been elsewhere, wholly focused on the tasks at hand, but now with her alone by the fire, her features stirred a latent interest. But he dared not press. He wasn’t particularly charming—never had been—and she certainly had greater concerns than the fumbling flirtations of a bann’s youngest son.

Harding gave the bow back to him, which he laid across his knees and unstrung. He gave the wood a tender caress.

“You should get some rest, ser,” Harding said. “It’ll be a long and hard day tomorrow.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Fynn conceded. “There were times, back home in Ostwick, that the nights got away from me. I’ve spent many of them up fletching arrows or looking over the breeding schedules for the autumn mares. I don’t expect to have that again any time soon.”

Harding looked into the fire, leaning on her short thighs. “A scout learns to use the night, for in the morning she has to be up and exploring again.”

Fynn inclined his head. “Then, I’ll learn from you and turn in.”

He rose, the bones of his spine popping, and, gathering his quiver and bow, took a step back from the fire. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Scout Harding. Thank you for the conversation.”

She peered up at him, complexion dotted with freckles and orange in the firelight. “We’ll be gone by dawn,” she said, “but I hope to see you again someday.” She added deferentially, “Herald.”

Fynn meant it as he replied, “And I you.”


	2. Chapter 2

###  **The Storm Coast, Ferelden**

Rain came down in drenching torrents, soaking Fynn through his leathers, as soon as they came within five leagues of the coast. His hair—brown and long enough to tie in a tail at the base of his skull—was plastered against his head, rivulets of water running down between his eyes. The only saving grace was that it had grown warmer since they had left the mountains en route back to Ferelden from Val Royeaux. The climate was temperate, if wet, as he reined his horse to a halt in the small camp too close to a cliff for his particular comfort.

Orlebar, the gelding he had acquired at Master Dennet’s in the Hinterlands, was thicker-boned and broader than the hunters he himself bred in Ostwick, but his stamina was unmatched and his easy gait made for less painful day-long rides. He was good-tempered, too, if wont to flaunt his sun-catching dun coat with eager prancing when Fynn first got into the saddle in the mornings. A black mane flopped over his sturdy neck, his tail its dark match.

Dismounting, Fynn looked over Orlebar’s back to where a tarpaulin was stretched enticingly between two trees and over a few other picketted horses, keeping them mostly dry. There would be space for another four, Fynn thought: his and those of his companions.

He had brought Cassandra again, but Varric had remained in Haven, Sera coming in his stead. Solas was seemingly ever-present.

The three of them were dismounted now as well, and looked as much like drowned rats as Fynn did. They cast their gazes around the camp, taking in its position and the few scouts who were to be seen. Fynn scanned their faces, hoping to alight upon Scout Harding’s among them.

He’d not seen her that next morning in the Hinterlands, she and her scouts already having gone, and it had been weeks since then. He’d crossed half of Thedas, it felt like, to get to Orlais and its capital. Harding had said she hoped to see him again, and he the same. He had been keen on this being that time, but from the what he could make out in the half-light of the cloudy sky above, she was nowhere to be found.

“Herald,” said a slight young woman in uniform, appearing beside him. “Welcome. I am Nyrine.”

She was an elf, Fynn saw, and bore the tattoos of the Dalish: looping around her narrow eyes and across her cheeks.

“Are you in charge here?” he asked, to-the-point.

In the past weeks, he hated to admit that he’d picked up Cassandra’s penchant for getting straight to business. Sometimes he chided himself for his own coarseness, but no one seemed to take offense. Nyrine was no different.

“For the moment, ser,” she replied. “Scout Harding led the expedition here, but she’s been out since this afternoon.”

She cocked her head to the side inquiringly at Fynn’s smile—which he realized he had not kept to himself. Harding was here after all.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?” he said.

“No, ser, but it will be before dark.”

Fynn turned his eyes up toward the sky, but the sun was totally obscured; he hadn’t the first idea what time of day it was.

“Right,” he said to Nyrine. “This lad”—he patted Orlebar’s flank—“wants rubbing down, but after that I’ll need to know about the situation here.”

“Of course, Herald,” said Nyrine with a smart salute. She turned and left him.

He assumed he was welcome to a spare stake on the picket line. Taking Orlebar by the reins, he led him over to the tarpaulin’s relative cover and set to untacking him.

The gelding’s muscles relaxed under Fynn’s currycomb, the fine hair of his coat sticking up in messy swirls as it dried—before it was smoothed down again by a bristled brush. The act of rubbing a horse down was as soothing to Fynn as it was to the horse. His feet learned the feel of the ground again, and he could stretch out a back that had been straight in the saddle for hours. It lent him a sense of comfort with the horse, too: getting to know and trust one another. Orlebar stood placidly for his tending-to, back left leg lax and tail switching contentedly.

Fynn had just fastened his feedbag over his muzzle when he sensed someone standing nearby. His fingers twitched toward the long knife he’d taken to carrying, but he stayed them, turning to find empty space ahead of him—until he looked down. There, the top of her head barely at the level of his chest, was Scout Harding.

“Herald,” she said, tipping her chin down in greeting.

“Scout Harding,” said Fynn. “Hello.”

He looked her over, finding that she had dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were hollower than when he had last seen her. She was, as a horseman would describe it, rode hard and put up wet. And she _was_ soaking wet.

“Welcome to the Storm Coast,” she said, sounding more than a little exhausted. “For what it’s worth.”

Fynn stepped out from under the tarpaulin, immediately feeling the plump raindrops on his scalp. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“As well as can be expected,” she replied, “after a sennight of chasing bandits up and down the shore. They know the terrain better than we do, and we’re only a few scouts, not a detachment.” Her expression darkened further. “I sent a few soldiers to speak to their leader, but I haven’t heard back.”

“I’ll find out what’s happened to them,” Fynn said stolidly.

Harding ventured a small smile. “Thank you, ser. It’ll be a relief to have news of them. With all the problems, we haven’t had a chance to search for the Grey Wardens yet. That might, at this rate, fall to you.”

“I can manage,” Fynn told her. “You deserve a rest.”

She chuckled ever-so-slightly. “Hard to come by these days, but thank you.” She gestured toward the center of the camp. “There’s no fire tonight, but we have dried meat and some apples. I think Herrin found some quail eggs you could eat raw.”

Fynn made a face. “I’ll stick to the jerky and apples.”

“I told him the same thing,” said Harding.

They went together to where the old cook had already dished out rations to Cassandra and Sera. From the two shells lying on the ground by the elf’s feet, she had taken Herrin up on the eggs. Fynn accepted a handful of dried venison and three small, winkled apples.

“My next order of business as herald,” he said once he and Harding had stopped at the cliff’s edge, next to a crooked sapling, “is to get better food supplies.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” she said, taking a bite out of one of her apples. “It’s not the worst I’ve eaten, though. There were a few lean winters when I was growing up. Ever had boiled shoe leather?”

Fynn nearly choked on his food. “You’re not serious,” he said.

Harding gave him a sober, searching look, but then laughed. “No, I’m not. But we had a poor wheat crop outside Redcliffe one autumn and nobody had enough flour for bread. We ate potatoes, but after that winter I never wanted to see one again.”

“The best potatoes in the Free Marches are the new harvests every spring,” Fynn said. “Tiny and almost sweet when you boil them.”

This time Harding pulled a face. “Only if I was starving again would I eat a potato, ser.”

Fynn pulled a bit of venison from his hand with his teeth, tipping it into his mouth with his tongue. Harding watched him, seemingly skeptical.

“Your family is noble,” she said.

“Wouldn’t know it to watch me eat, eh?” Fynn asked, amused. “They are. My father’s Bann Trevelyan. I’m his youngest, and the second son.” He lifted his eyebrows, questioning. “Did you always live in the Hinterlands? Not Orzammar?”

“I’m a surfacer, born and raised,” she replied. “I’ve never even been to Orzammar. My father sometimes trades there still, and claims to have Merchant caste blood, but there’s no way to prove it.”

“You never went with him?” said Fynn.

She tossed an apple core over the cliff, where it disappeared into the waves breaking on the basalt columns below. “I wasn’t going to be a trader. Or a seamstress, like my mother.”

“I can’t picture that,” Fynn admitted.

Harding shot him a mildly entertained expression. “Nobody could once they actually meet me. She was disappointed, but she never stopped me from going out and tending to our neighbor’s sheep instead.”

That caught Fynn off guard as well; another unlikely profession. “You don’t seem like a shepherd, either.”

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall again. “It’s how I got to know the Hinterlands well enough to be a guide for the Inquisition. I guess you could say it got me here. And I like this.”

“It suits you.”

“And you, Herald,” she told him, eyes tracking in his direction. “The work you did in the Hinterlands was remarkable. The Inquisition is much stronger for it. For you.”

Fynn neatly dodged the compliment, asking, “Are you parents still there?”

“They are. They’re well, if that’s what you’re asking.” She smiled, and he returned it. She said, “What’s your family like?”

He had to pick his words carefully, not always sure how to describe them. “Nothing like one another,” he said after a time. “You never would have looked at us and thought we were family. The only thing that unites us is blood.”

Harding stopped with a bit of jerky at her mouth, considering. “You don’t seem to dislike that.”

“I don’t feel one way or another about it; that’s how we are, and there’s no changing it. My elder brother Taliesin, for example, has the mind of an estate manager. He knows every tenant farmer in the bannorn and can tell you to the very acre how much wheat or corn we’re growing at any given time. He counts heifers and sows in his sleep. I couldn’t tell you any of that, even under torture. But I can recite the bloodline of my hunting horse back six generations.”

“That’s not so dissimilar,” said Harding. “Both are good memories, if for different things.”

“Perhaps,” said Fynn. “My two sisters as are night and day, though. Mererid wed young and went to Tantervale to raise children, embroider, and gossip. Her conversation is insipid, even if she’s not a stupid woman. Aerona, however, is…” He stopped, realizing his mistake. “She _was_ the one who devoted everything to the Maker.”

Harding, somber, said, “The Conclave.”

The familiar guilt of having his own life at the cost of hers constricted Fynn’s chest.

“We’ll find out who caused it,” Harding assured him, “and we’ll make sure they answer for their crimes.”

Fynn wasn’t so confident, but he nodded all the same. “She was ten years older and had already gone into the Chantry by the time I was old enough to remember her well, but she was kind to me.” He scratched his chin. “She convinced my father I wasn’t cut out for the Templars.”

“You seem as much like a Templar as I do a shepherd,” Harding said.

“You’re right about that,” said Fynn. “I was never meant to be a solider. I can fight, but not in the ways a Templar must.”

Harding sucked her teeth. “Would you prefer to ask them to help seal the Breach, or the mages?”

Fynn swallowed. “I don’t know yet. I don’t have a particular reason to trust or _dis_ trust either of them. Both could do the job.”

“But you’d best choose soon.”

He sighed. “Choices again. I _do_ have one now, and I’m at a loss.”

Harding shifted her weight between her small feet, Fynn looking down at the crown of her head, her hair once again braided elegantly.

“You’ll make the right decision,” she said.

“How do you know?” asked Fynn.

She glanced at him, one corner of her mouth lifted. “I just have a feeling.”

They finished their light meal in quiet, listening to the hiss of the sea below. Fynn recalled the journey across the water from the Free Marches, his stomach lurching in response. He hadn’t faired well, even in the short time they had been sailing. He didn’t relish the thought of returning; but then again, he wasn’t certain if or when he ever would. It was possible he would die in the service of the Inquisition, and strangely, he didn’t fear the prospect.

“My horse has surely eaten his oats by now,” he said to Harding. “I need to see to him.”

She grew tense, her shoulders firmly locked. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”

Fynn studied her, concluding, “You don’t like horses.”

“You wouldn’t either, if you were my size. They tower above and could easily trample me.”

“What about ponies?” Fynn asked.

“Tolerable,” she replied, “but I’d rather walk.”

“Did you walk all the way here from the Hinterlands?”

She nodded. “I get to know the roads better, or the wilds when there’s no road to be seen. Riding isn’t the same.”

Fynn could understand that, he thought, even if he would far rather ride. He said, “Come meet Orlebar. He has a good temper; he won’t hurt you.”

Harding eyed him warily, a refusal surely on the tip of her tongue.

“Please,” said Fynn. He wasn’t exactly sure why he yearned so strongly to bring her to his horse. Still, he didn’t quell the compulsion.

“All right,” she said, tone heavy. “Just for a little while.”

Fynn was glad for the cover of the tarpaulin again, and he could see that Harding was, too. She was cautious, hesitant at its edge, a good few paces—by Fynn’s reckoning—from the horses.

Orlebar lifted his head when Fynn came to his side and unfastened the feedbag. Fynn took up a nearby bucket of rainwater, offering it for the gelding to drink. He did, in deep, audible gulps.

“Is it a young horse?” Harding said, still a distance back.

“ _He_ is just three,” said Fynn. “So, yes, young. Dennet said he broke him six months ago, and he had been planning to sell him for a hefty price. He’d have fetched it, too.” He gave Orlebar a pat on the neck. To Harding: “Come. He’s half-asleep.”

She went in tentative steps, regarding the gelding with suspicion all the while. She stopped beside Fynn, at Orlebar’s shoulder.

“You can pet him,” Fynn told her. “He likes to be scratched at the girth, too.”

Harding lifted a petite hand—short fingers with the nails clean—and laid it against his coat. “Soft,” she murmured, almost to herself. Gently, she ran her palm up along the ridge of his shoulder and down to his girth. There, she scratched.

Orlebar responded immediately, extending his neck and wiggling his upper lip in ecstasy.

Harding laughed. “Look at his face. He loves it.”

Fynn grinned. “He’s a sucker for a good scratch.” He offered his hand for Orlebar to nuzzle as he enjoyed Harding’s ministrations. The prickly hair crinkled against Fynn’s skin.

“Let him see you,” he said to Harding, gesturing her forward.

She moved with less fear, coming to Orlebar’s head and looking up at his round brown eyes. He batted long lashes at her, and her face softened.

“Hold out your hand like this,” Fynn told her, putting his palm down to the level of the gelding’s nose. “He’ll sniff you.”

Harding did as she was told, and Orlebar dutifully lowered his muzzle to take a few snuffling breaths. Harding said as she patted between his nostrils, “It’s like velvet here.”

“Him in particular,” said Fynn. “He’s a good horse. I’m glad for him.”

Harding moved slightly away from Orlebar, who sighed and relaxed again, lethargic. “I think I could get used to him,” she said. “He’s not frightening, you’re right. But I’d still be afraid to ride.”

“Then you shouldn’t have to,” Fynn said.

He turned back to the camp, the tents shedding water. The flaps of one were open, revealing Cassandra in what dry clothes she had studying a tome she must have brought along. Sera was still out in the weather, talking with a pair of scouts. They were laughing at whatever she was saying. Solas was at the cliff where Fynn and Harding had been before, staring out and thinking unknowable thoughts. Fynn couldn’t read him.

“How long will you stay here?” Harding asked.

“However long it takes to deal with the bandits and find the Wardens,” Fynn replied. “Hopefully less than a fortnight.” He looked down at her. “And your scouts?”

“We’ll leave in the morning,” she said. “There’s word of trouble in somewhere called the Fallow Mire, and we’re expected to have a look at it before soldiers—or you—come.”

“Ah,” said Fynn, not bothering to mask his disappointment.

Harding faced him, expression open and inquiring. “You want us to remain here?”

He weighed honesty, but the acceptance of both their duties won out. “If you need to be elsewhere, I shouldn’t stop you. You’re indispensable to us.”

She glanced away, thumbs hooked into her belt. She didn’t seemed satisfied with that answer, and Fynn regretted it.

“Of course, Herald,” she said, staunchly formal. A clearing of her throat. “I need to see to a few things before we sleep: preparations for the leavetaking. I wish you a good night.”

Fynn, plaintive, said, “And you, Scout Harding.”

She left him under the tarpaulin to watch her gather her scouts. He stood, kicking himself inwardly for ruining a comfortable moment. He’d find a way to right it when he saw her next, he could promise that.

“Trevelyan,” came Cassandra’s voice from the tent. She beckoned him, and he realized it was time to return to his work.


	3. Chapter 3

###  **The Fallow Mire, Ferelden**

Never before had Fynn had a boot pulled right off his foot by the sucking mud around it, but as soon as he arrived in the Fallow Mire, he was relieved of both shoes—one after the other as he ventured away from the raised path through the bog. In stockingfeet he had sunk into the waterlogged filth up to mid-calf.

He wouldn’t have guessed there was a place wetter and more miserable than the Storm Coast, but there he was, sodden once again and in a significantly worse mood considering the near destruction of his best boots. Mud squelching through his socks, he trudged back to the path, where Iron Bull, Solas, and Varric—the latter poorly hiding his laughter—were waiting.

They had left their horses at the first camp, finding their way deeper into the Mire on foot. Fynn was glad for it, untrusting of the rickety bridges along what passed for a road. He wasn’t certain any of them could have supported Orlebar’s weight.

Cursing under his breath, Fynn looked down at his soiled trousers and the muck-coated boots he had managed to yank free, all ruined. Despondent, he realized he had only one change of clothes, which he did not plan on sacrificing to the Mire. With a frustrated exclamation, he tossed the boots to the ground.

“I should have warned you, ser,” came a woman’s voice not far away. “Leaving the road is treacherous.”

Had Fynn not recognized Scout Harding, he would have shot her a glare befitting his black humor, but instead he could only cast a withering gaze in her direction.

“You certainly could have done, yes,” he grumbled. “I saw the light out there and wanted to see what it—”

A haunting growl emanated from the place he had left, cutting him off. He whirled to find a skeletal figure shambling toward the road, a rusty sword in its bony hand. The half-helm on its skull was askew, hiding one empty eye socket.

In only moments, Fynn had nocked an arrow from his quiver and fired, striking the ghoul in the hollow chest. It stumbled, but kept coming. He snatched another arrow, drew back on his bow, and shot. This time it penetrated the creature’s head, tip exploding in a hail of bone at the back. The creature collapsed in a pile, immediately beginning to sink into the mud.

“Maker above,” Fynn said, only then lowering his bow. “What are they?”

“The fallen,” Harding replied. “That’s all we know. But there’s something deeply wrong in this place. The dead should stay dead.”

Fynn couldn’t disagree.

He came to face Harding as his heartbeat slowed, appraising her filthy armor and disordered hair. There was a smear of mud across her left cheek that Fynn wished to wipe away with his sleeve. But she didn’t require his mothering care.

“So this is the Fallow Mire,” he said. “Can’t say it’s very welcoming.”

“Farthest from it I can fathom, ser,” said Harding. “I haven’t been properly dry in a fortnight.” She kicked her dirty boot against the packed stone of the road.

Fynn exhaled, forlornly regarding his boots. “I’m definitely looking forward to spending just as long here.”

“Maybe you won’t have to,” Harding said. She gestured to him. “Come on. There’s a fire here. I’ll give you the report.”

What little heat the flames threw, Fynn enjoyed, putting his chilly hands out toward them. Another scout came to him with something hot in a mug, which he drank without tasting it.

“Hargrave Keep is the only structure to speak of here,” Harding began, producing a rolled hide marked with red ink. The X, Fynn assumed, marked its location. “Whoever built it—humans, I think—left it abandoned after the plague swept through. I don’t know how long it stood vacant, but the Avvar arrived a few years ago and drove away anyone who had been bold enough to remain.”

“Avvar?” Fynn inquired. “I’ve not heard of that before.”

“ _They_ ,” said Harding, “are tribes of humans. Barbarians, some call them. I wouldn’t necessarily argue, considering their tactics.”

Fynn’s expression was grave. “Have they killed our soldiers? Any of your scouts?”

“Not my people,” she replied, “but they captured a number of soldiers and have been holding them in the keep. They’re making demands.”

“What demands?” Fynn asked.

“They want to see the Herald of Andraste.”

Fynn pressed his lips together, looking down at the empty mug between his palms. “Have they named terms?”

“No,” Harding said. “But its said their leader wants to challenge you.” A pause to glance down at the map. “I tried to assess the keep as best I could, but they have patrols day and night. I don’t think they’ll have killed our men, but I couldn’t get close enough to tell.”

“Is there a way in that isn’t through the main gate?” Fynn said. He knew how foolhardy an assault from the front with only four people could be.

Harding was regretful. “Not that I could find.”

“Right,” said Fynn.

“We can handle it, Boss,” Iron Bull put in. He had come up beside Harding, comically massive in stature beside her. He was bigger than Orlebar, Fynn thought, but Harding was not afraid of him and his axe. Had Fynn not known him, the Qunari warrior would have struck far more fear into his heart that any ill-tempered horse.

Harding craned her neck to meet his gaze. “I actually think you could,” she said.

Bull rumbled with laughter. “You could come along, fair dwarf. You’ve got a bow at your back.”

Fynn had noted it, too, finding the size just right for her, the curve of it smooth and light. The golden varnish shed the Mire’s rainwater well. He couldn’t deny that he would appreciate her company in their assault on the keep, if only to see her wield her weapon.

“We’re needed elsewhere,” Harding told them. “Now that you’re here, we can move on.” She held out the makeshift map to Fynn, who took it. “I’ve marked two Fade rifts on this, too. Demons are coming through, just like the others.”

Fynn studied the points noted before rolling up the hide and tucking it into his belt. “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.” He surveyed the other scouts in the area: just four, all of them bedraggled. “You are all in need of some rest.”

Harding didn’t argue, but instead asked, “And you? Do you rest?”

“In snatches,” he replied. “You told me to use the nights, and I’ve done that. There are times when we’re traveling that I can calm my thoughts. But”—he ran a hand over his damp hair, tugging at the tail by his neck—“it’s not a restful life.”

“Did you have that before?” she said. “In the Free Marches?”

“Compared to this? Yes. Even if I spent most of my days in the stables, there was still time for leisure.” He didn’t mean for it to sound like whinging, but he realized that it might have; a soft nobleman’s son complaining of a hard day’s work. “Not to whine. I don’t necessarily miss it.”

“It’s all right if you do,” Harding said. “Sometimes I long for the nights camped under the stars with the sheep. It was peaceful. I didn’t have to watch over my shoulder at every turn for Venatori or Red Templars or whatever monsters live in this bog.”

“It would have been a waste of your skills to herd sheep,” said Bull. “You’ve got restlessness in your blood.” He leveled a finger at Fynn. “You too, Boss.”

“Maybe,” Fynn conceded, “but if ending this fighting means a few more nights spent in a warm bed, or with dry boots, I’d like that.”

Bull hummed, but only clapped him on the back and left the fireside.

Fynn said, when he had gone, “His is a mercenary’s life. I think he thrives on hardship.”

“I can tell,” said Harding, eyebrows raised. “But he’s a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, or so I’ve heard.”

“Word travels fast,” Fynn observed. “His reputation precedes him.”

“As does yours, Herald.” She faced northward, where Hargrave Keep lay. “The Avvar would not be demanding to see you as they are if they didn’t think you had power. And they must have known that you care for your men, too, or they would not have considered the soldiers they captured leverage enough to entice you here.”

“They thought I might have just abandoned them?” said Fynn, taken aback. “Who would be so callous?”

Harding turned to him again. “Many people, and maybe some within the Inquisition. They might argue that it’s not worth putting yourself at risk for a handful of recruits. There are men to replace them; we cannot replace you.”

Anger bubbled in Fynn’s gut, though not at Harding. He said, “It’s the mark they can’t afford to lose, not me.”

Harding countered, “It’s not only that. You’ve won a lot of people to our cause, and not only because they believe Andraste chose you. It’s what _you’ve_ done.”

He calmed some, filled with gratitude. “I don’t know how I’ve given you such confidence in me, Scout Harding, but it doesn’t go unappreciated.”

Even in the gray light of the Mire, he saw some pink come into her cheeks. But she hid it hastily, pointing to his empty mug.

“Do you want more broth?” she asked. “It’s not much, but it’ll put some heat in your belly.”

“All right,” he replied.

There was a small cauldron nearby the fire. Its contents steamed when the cover was taken off.

Harding ladled some of the broth into his mug, and found one for herself. As she covered the pot again, she said, “You’re still in your socks. Aren’t your feet freezing?”

Fynn wriggled his toes, realizing that yes, they were quite cold. “I’ll have to get the dry socks out of my pack,” he said. “Suppose there’s not much chance of these ones drying out, is there?”

“Not really,” Harding said.

“I’ll clean my boots first, and then see to it.” He took a sip of the broth, finding he could taste it better this time. Perhaps he’d simply been too distracted to even pick up on the scant chicken bone flavor before. He asked Harding, “Did you enjoy being a shepherd?”

She had her mug at her lips, appearing thoughtful. “I did, for the most part. The simplicity was a comfort, and the spring lambs warmed your heart no matter how cold and hard it was.” She smiled. “It could have been a good life.”

“Did you, ah, eat mutton?” Fynn said.

She snorted in amusement. “Yes, of course, but only those that wouldn’t fetch a price or had become lame. We raised them mostly for wool, not meat. But it’s out of respect for the life and the body that you eat it rather than letting it go to waste.”

“A hunter’s philosophy,” Fynn mused. “I was taught the same when I was boy. My father doesn’t hunt himself, but his household huntsmen did. I found myself shadowing them to learn. I can probably clean a sheep as well as you can, with nothing left to languish. Every part of use.”

“Maybe I’ll test that someday,” said Harding. “See which of us is the better hunter.” She tipped her head toward his bow. “You’re a fine shot. That bog creature never stood a chance.”

“I would like to have put it down with the first arrow,” Fynn told her, “but I’ve never faced anything like a walking skeleton before. Are you certain this place isn’t cursed?”

“No more so than by the weather alone.”

They chuckled, sipping their broth.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Fynn said after a time. “You asked about mine but I didn’t ask about yours.”

“No,” she said. “It’s only me.”

It was a circumspect reply, and Fynn considered letting the matter drop, but he was curious about her.

He prodded: “Did you have a great deal of friends, then?”

She remained impassive, her eyes on the fire, but Fynn heard the withdrawal in her voice. “There weren’t other surfacer dwarves around, and the humans in Redcliffe didn’t always know what to do with a girl half their size.”

Fynn was sorry for that, for she must have been a spirited child. Though he himself would not have known how to handle a dwarf as he was growing up. He was concerned that in his youthful ignorance, he would have mocked one for its differences. It was not that he had been a cruel boy, but all children can sense and needle others who stand out from them. They can be as barbaric as any tribe.

“Did you wish to have lived somewhere with more dwarves?” he continued.

“Sometimes,” said Harding, “but in the end, I spent my time foraging and exploring. I had the sheep. I didn’t suffer overmuch for being alone.” She made a small sound of humor. “Now I’m never alone. We always scout in pairs.”

“To keep eyes on one another?” Fynn asked.

“For one to report back if the other falls,” Harding replied. “If we don’t keep Leliana apprised of what’s happening, the Inquisition suffers.”

Fynn, somber, said, “You take a great risk for us.”

“So do you, Herald.”

He drank from his mug, contemplating the fire and recognizing this as a moment of respite. He spoke of it to Harding.

“I’m glad I don’t fill your mind with further worries,” she said. “You already have a lot to contend with.”

“It’s good company,” said Fynn. “I don’t always find it easy to talk to everyone, if you’ll believe it. I’m not bashful, but I can’t always read every situation exactly right. I feel like I’m always at the precipice of fumbling and making an idiot of myself...and thereby the Inquisition.”

“You’ve done fine so far. No gross missteps that have led to wars.”

Fynn huffed. “Not yet.”

Harding looked at him, green eyes vibrant. “I have faith in you. We all do.”

“Thank you,” Fynn said, heartfelt.

They stood by the fire for a while longer, before the scouts began to assemble to leave and Solas had returned with a torch of veilfire to light the way on. Fynn scraped the mud off his boots the best he could, donning new socks, and ventured out again, waving a last farewell to Harding.


	4. Chapter 4

###  **Haven**

The closing of the Breach took spectacular energy, more than Fynn thought he had in himself. With the Templars in tow, their Ser Berris at his side, he had managed to exert his will through the mark in his hand and seal the hole in the sky.

In the aftermath, he’d barely been able to stay on his feet, and Cassandra had helped him to his cot in Haven to rest. He’d slept through the rest of the day and into the next morning.

He woke to jubilation.

Upon leaving his tent, voices were raised in happy greeting, their cheers spreading like burning oil across Haven and down to where the soldiers camped. He was well, whole, and they were all safe.

For a short time, he allowed them to believe it, and for he himself to be caught up in the joy.

Leliana, of all people, was the one to bring him his first pint of ale from the tavern, fresh foam running down the sides of the cup and over her long fingers. He accepted it with gratitude and drank deeply, the rich flavor seemingly washing away the acrid stink of magic that still lingered in his mouth after the Breach.

In the end, he’d chosen the Templars to aid them because of that distaste for magic. Certainly, they wielded their own form of it, but it was not as openly or disconcertingly as the mages. Vivienne, whom he’d met in Val Royeaux and had joined the Inquisition, was the epitome of good breeding and culture, and yet when he watched her cast spells, it sent discomfiting shivers through him. Solas, too, was unnerving, and always had been—especially in his insistent prodding at Fynn’s mark.

Fynn wasn’t wholly mistrustful of them, for they were his allies and Vivienne had approved greatly of his choice to ally with the Templars, but their strange connection to the Fade, the perfume of sorcery they carried with them, and their innate sense of superiority set his nerves on edge. So, he had elected to turn to the Templars, despite Solas’s dissent.

Perhaps, too, it was an acknowledgement of what he might have been had he done as his father had wanted and joined the Order. It never would have been a good match, and he would have been miserable (if he had not died straight away for lack of clever swordsmanship), but Knight-Captain Berris seemed a good sort: honest and straightforward, qualities that Fynn admired. There was no front of mage’s mystique to him, putting Fynn at greater ease in his company.

The Templar forces had doubled the number of men to feed and house at Haven, but somehow Josephine had managed to keep them all in rations and blankets, a feat Fynn could not have imagined achieving on his own. But he did not have her diplomat’s silver tongue, or the gift for gently negotiating at the outset only to pounce like a huntress when it was called for. The Inquisition's ambassador may have worn a lamb’s face, but it hid a lion’s claws.

Cullen set straight away to assimilating the new recruits into his forces, or at least working with Berris to train them to fight together. There was little discord as far as Fynn could tell—or was told—relieving that particular burden on his mind. Cullen might have left the Templars after the awful days he spent in Kirkwall during the Rebellion, but he did not disapprove of bringing them to help the Inquisition; he still had implicit trust in their discipline and determination.

Fynn drank that first ale in the frosty air outside the Chantry, his breath fogging up around him. An errant flake of snow landed at the tip of his nose at one point, and when he curled his tongue up to lick it off, even Sera, who had been in a sour mood since the Templars had arrived, slapped her skinny knee and cackled with laughter.

“We’ll stay in Haven for a few days,” Cassandra told him, carrying her own mug of drink. “Recuperate and regroup for whatever comes next.” She offered him one of her rare smiles. “We deserve to celebrate a little, do we not?”

Fynn’s smile was wider, and his hand landed firmly on her shoulder. He said, “We do.”

Ale and spirits flowed freely for the rest of that afternoon, and as the sun began to descend and a greater chill grew, towering bonfires were lit to fend off the dark and cold. Fynn found himself reeling just slightly from drink at the edge of one, where a group of soldiers had produced a fiddle, bagpipes, a hand drum, and a flute. They were playing merrily, inspiring a few bold (and possibly drunk) dancers to hop around the the fire to the music.

Fynn thought at first that his ale-tinged vision was playing tricks on him, but as he looked out to the opposite side of the bonfire circle, he spotted a small, familiar figure dancing hand-in-hand with a solider who stood tall above her: Scout Harding.

In the intervening weeks since he’d seen her in the Fallow Mire, Fynn had found himself conjuring her visage in his mind’s eye during the handful of moments before he drifted to sleep at night. Her light complexion had stood out against the scug of that dusky day, her hair a bright point of steady flame in the gloom.

The features of her face were not delicate in the way an elf’s would be, but strong: a defined square jaw and high forehead, her sloping nose leading to wide but not inelegant nostrils. The smattering of freckles across her skin became her, and the scar across her left cheek added character that sealed her in one’s memory. He had been hoping to ask her about its origins, but had not been afforded the opportunity.

Fynn had seen few dwarven women in his twenty-eight years, but among them she was the most striking. There was no denying that she drew his attention for more than her capability as a scout. Just then, as she danced, he was struck as if by a blow.

“Well, well,” said Varric, who had come to sit beside Fynn a short time before, “if it isn’t our plucky lead scout. She’s quite light on her feet, eh, Trevelyan?”

Fynn just managed to find his voice. “Ah, yes, it appears so.”

She and her partner passed behind the fire and he lost sight of her. That absence was keenly and directly felt.

Varric leaned back, stretching his spine with his palms against his thighs. “It’s not often she and her merry men are in Haven,” he said. His tone was heavy with what Fynn thought was suggestion, but of what he wasn’t certain.

“No,” said Fynn blandly. “I suppose not.”

“Do you dance, Herald?” Varric asked, sly. He only used Fynn’s title when he had an agenda.

Fynn eyed him, incredulous. “What of it, Tethras?”

Varric raised his hands in mock-innocence. “Only an idle question. I’m no dancer myself, but I reckon that a bann’s son knows his way around a ballroom.”

“Passably,” said Fynn. “My waltz is clumsy at best, but this”—he gestured to the dancers—“is doable. I preferred tavern dances to my sister’s parities.”

“Then why not get out there?” asked Varric. “Maybe you could do better than that, erm, ungainly lad with Scout Harding.”

It was true that the young soldier was fumbling a bit through the steps, but he wasn’t doing as poor a job as Varric implied. The suggestion was clear, though: Fynn could replace him in the next dance.

He made a noncommittal sound, and Varric opened his mouth to say something else—likely an insisting second reason to join Harding—but then the bagpipes held a long, quavering note before cutting sharply off. The dancers came to a halt, bursting into applause. The onlookers cheered, too, raising their mugs.

Fynn saw Harding grin at her partner and bow shallowly. The man returned the gesture, taking his leave. She remained where she stood, looking flushed by exertion and heat from the fire.

“Now’s your chance,” Varric hissed.

Fynn was tempted to demand why the roguish dwarf was at all invested in the matter, but instead took the offered opportunity. He abandoned his half-drunk ale at Varric’s feet and moved determinedly across the fire circle to where Harding was waiting.

“Scout Harding,” he said, loudly enough to be heard over the conversation and the crackle of the fire. “Hello.”

She turned to him, brightening as recognition dawned. “Herald,” she said. There was surprise in her voice. “Ah, hello.”

Fynn’s middle warmed, and not from the infusion of ale alone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in Haven,” he told her.

“We don’t come back except for a few days’ rest,” she said. “But after the Breach, Leliana called us to return, so we could celebrate with everyone else.”

“Good,” said Fynn. They stood apart for a moment, Fynn unsure how to proceed. He dared not glance at Varric, whom he could still sense was watching him. He was the Herald of Andraste, for Maker’s sake; he could ask for one dance. And the drummer had started up again: a merry, rolling beat that invited the feet to move.

Offering a hand, he said, “Would you care to dance with me?”

Harding flicked her gaze down to his open palm and then back up to his face. “Me, Herald?”

Fynn, suddenly uncomfortable with the formality, said, “I’d prefer it if you’d use my name.”

“Trevelyan?” she ventured.

That was what the others called him, but he didn’t wish that from Harding. He shook his head. “Fynn. Please.”

She hesitated, pressing her lips together until they whitened, but capitulated. She slid her hand into his, saying, “Yes, Fynn, I’d like a dance.”

Her skin was warm against his, and calloused. It matched his own.

She was half his height, if that, and it forced him to round his shoulders some to keep hold of her hands, but it wasn’t long before they had fallen into rhythm with the piper and fiddler, the flute chortling airly over it all.

Harding was a clever dancer, deft and a strong partner. There was no particular leading or following this brand of folk step, so they moved together at a matching pace around the fire circle.

The onlookers didn’t miss their Herald among the dancers, clapping and calling encouragements. If they found him incongruous with Harding, they did not seem to care—and neither did he. As they spun and kicked their feet, he found himself laughing aloud, caught up in the simple pleasure of it. Harding was smiling, too, a fetching expression that lifted his spirits further.

At the sound of a lilting pipe melody, he released her hands and took her instead by the waist, lifting her off her feet and into his arms to spin her once in a circle. She burst into a fit of giggles, grabbing hold of his shirt-front to steady herself. Fynn beamed, her weight barely substantial at all in his grip.

When he set her on the ground again, they had to take a pause to right themselves.

Out of breath, Harding said, “Nobody’s done _that_ before.”

“Have you not danced with many humans?” Fynn asked. He was sincerely—an a bit covetously—nosy.

“A handful,” she replied, “but none so tall as you.” As if to emphasize that, she tipped her head far back and lifted her eyebrows.

Fynn held back the urge to touch her cheek where she was scarred, startled by the tender demand from within.

Unaffected, Harding grabbed for his hands again. “Come on! Let’s finish the dance.”

They sprang back into step to the accompaniment of fiddle and the clap of hands from the others around the fire. They navigated around the other dancers, smiled at as they did so. Fynn was swept up in the bliss, forgetting for the time all that had happened in the past months and what awaited come the morn.

As the music came to stop at last, he let go of Harding. However, he was not yet ready to relinquish her company.

“May I buy you an ale?” he asked.

Her face was alight, and did not waver at the question. “The Herald of Andraste doesn’t pay for his drinks, surely.”

It was fair point.

He said, “Well, may I procure one for you all the same?”

“All right.”

Fynn was tempted to take her hand to lead her toward the tavern, but did not, instead making way with her close by, shortening his strides to accommodate her. He caught sight of Varric, still in his place on the bench, smirking at the pair of them, utterly self-satisfied. Fynn chose not to reward him by meeting his eyes.

They were not much beyond the fireside, Fynn ready to ask if Harding wanted a full pint, when the blare of an urgent trumpet sounded from the lookouts’ post beyond Haven’s gate. Both Fynn and Harding skidded to a stop, at attention.

At first, he believed it was a mirage, but as he squinted out at the mountainside beyond the valley where the troops were camped and saw spots of torchlight bobbing as if carried in many hands, he knew it was real.

“Herald!” cried a harried soldier, nearly slipping in the snow-damp dirt of the path. “There’s an army approaching! We are to be attacked.”

Fynn’s battle instincts came alive, his fingertips tingling with a surge of the fear-courage that came with a fight. “Rally the troops,” he ordered. “Archers to the wall, and man the catapults.”

“Yes, ser,” barked the soldier, scrambling away.

The festive air had already fizzled out, replaced by half-panic and essential defense. Fynn looked down at Harding, whose face had grown dark with determination.

“I need to get to the front,” he told her. “Find Cullen.”

“Of course,” she said. A glance toward the tavern, where inquisitive civilians were coming out into the open. “I’ll get people to the Chantry. They can take cover there.”

“Good,” said Fynn. He did touch her then, though only her shoulder. “Go carefully.”

She gave a curt nod. “Be safe.” A pause, and then, “Fynn.”

Dashing away, she went to gather those who needed sanctuary. Fynn stood by only see her disappear into the tavern before breaking into a run toward the gates of the village to face whatever was coming into the valley.


	5. Chapter 5

###  **Somewhere in the Frostback Mountains**

Bits of ice cut across his face, stinging what parts of it he could still feel. The biting wind stirred up the snow on the ground and rendered him nearly blind, his boots sinking deep into bitterly cold, damp drifts.

The battle at Haven had been a merciless one, Fynn and the Inquisition forces fighting off not only Corypheus, but a dragon that spewed flame from its jagged maw. They’d lost soldiers, Fynn knew, but more of the their people had escaped through the hidden passages under the Chantry. He, too, had left the ruined village behind, but the rest of the Inquisition was long-since gone and the weather had turned violent.

Fynn’s body was trembling, what little fortitude he had left quickly waning in the face of the storm’s wrath. He was stumbling with numbness and fatigue, growing more certain by the unmeasurable moments that he was going to succumb.

He could be satisfied with this end: having fended off Corypheus long enough to allow the Inquisition to recover and face him again. If he could not stand with him—instead dying here, covered by the snow and never found—he would have least have given them a small advantage. The rebel mages in Corypheus’s army had been pushed back and would have to recoup before they could attack again. And they would have to _find_ the Inquisition.

Despite the nagging of the exhaustion that insisted he stop, lie down, and rest, he pushed on until the edges of his vision grew blurry. His toe caught on something beneath a drift and he pitched forward, enveloped in white. He drew frost into his lungs, leaving him gasping and weak. He wasn’t going to be able to rise again.

It was imagined, he thought at first, the sound of voices muffled by the wind, but then it came clearer and closer.

“He’s here!” The words were hazy in his frozen consciousness, but he thought he recognized the speaker: Harding. It had to be.

“Fynn!” she called, nearer to him now. “Fynn, can you stand?”

He tried to speak, but the words would not come. He feared his throat was closed with ice. A sturdy arm came around him, wrenching him up with surprising strength. Bursting free of the drift, he sputtered. There, holding him around the shoulders, was Harding. She was hooded against the weather, her nose red, but her eyes were bright with worry. She said his name again.

“Let me take him,” said someone else, a man.

Fynn blinked dazedly toward him, finding Cullen. The Inquisition’s commander hefted him up, supporting his weight in a way Harding could not.

“Come, Herald,” Cullen bid him, and pulled him bodily forward.

Fynn legs buckled.

Harding’s voice again: “We have to carry him.” A gloved hand touched his cheek. “Stay with us, Fynn. Stay with me.”

That was the last he heard before he fainted.

* * *

Fynn had woken to singing, somewhere unnamed in the mountains, but sheltered by a semi-warm tent, swathed in furs. It was an old song that he recalled from childhood, sung in unison by the hundreds who had left Haven. He was no singer himself, but joined them all the same.

“We would not have found you,” Leliana had told him when the song was done, “had it not been for Scout Harding. Her determination was stolid, energy boundless. You owe her your life.”

“Where is she?” Fynn had asked.

“Gone ahead to lay out a path for us. Solas knows the way and went along with her.”

Frowning, Fynn had said, “Where are we going?”

Leliana had smiled, saying only, “You will see.”

Now, days later, Fynn was standing at the crest of a ridge, looking down onto what had once been an elven fortress. Skyhold, Solas had called it. It was to be their new home.

“Fynn.”

He turned his face at the sound of his name, and there was Harding. She had just arrived back, he assumed, from her explorations of the stronghold. The scouts had gone ahead to test the bridge to Skyhold, to insure it was sound.

“What did you find?” he asked. It was pointed, no time spared for the pleasantries of their last exchange in Haven.

Harding was unbothered. She replied, “The crossing will be safe, and the gates are up. The fortress itself is in need of repair, but it’s shelter enough.” She opened her hands. “A few coats of paint and, well, an army of stonemasons and it’ll be serviceable.”

Fynn winced, but at least it was safe.

“Thank you,” he said.

She dismissed him: “It’s my duty.”

He shook his head, twice to each side. “No. For what you did in the mountains. You searched for me.”

“Everyone did,” she told him.

“That’s not what Leliana said.”

She did not then attempt to deflect, instead tipping her chin up with something akin to pride. “You’re our Herald, and...I didn’t want to lose you.”

Gratitude burned in Fynn’s center, and he wanted so much to embrace her. But there were many eyes on them, and he didn’t know if she would accept it. They were approaching friendship, he thought (and hoped), but his position loomed between them, a barrier to better acquaintance.

He’d heard of the distance from others that came with leadership—kings and banns, captains and generals were held at arm’s length by their subordinates out of respect and sometimes fearful awe—and yet had, perhaps foolishly, assumed it would not happen to him. The formality and deference wasn’t a problem with others, but Harding’s coolness did not sit well.

Taking in Fynn’s silence, her expression grew shuttered, regretful. “I’ve spoken wrong.”

“No,” he was quick to say. “I would always have you speak freely with me.” He ventured a tentative smile. “I like the thought that you might have missed me had I…ah.”

“We could not do without you,” she said. “And it’s true, you would have been missed.”

He might have said more, but a call of “Trevelyan!” announced Cassandra’s arrival. Scout Harding turned skittish as she approached in purposeful steps through the snow.

“I should go,” she said. “Things need doing. Excuse me, ser.”

“Fynn,” he reminded her gently.

She offered him a narrow smile, repeated it, and left him.


	6. Chapter 6

###  **Crestwood, Ferelden**

It was unlikely there was a place as cursed with bad luck as Crestwood. A village flooded, residents forced to flee to higher ground; a dragon picking off livestock; bandits in the nearby Caer Bronach; and now undead and demons rising from a Fade rift in the middle of the lake. The pissing rain didn’t endear the place to anyone in the party, either, including Orlebar, who was in a sour mood, his ears flat against his head as Fynn reined up in the Inquisition’s forward camp at the edge of the lake.

The gelding stamped his right foreleg impatiently, and Fynn murmured, “Steady on, there. Steady.”

“Can he understand you?”

Both Fynn’s and Orlebar’s attention shifted from the unsettled waters beyond camp to where Scout Harding had come to stand from among the tents. Orlebar’s ears came back up, and he wickered with interest.

“I’d like to think so,” Fynn said, running a hand up into Orlebar’s sodden mane. “Horses speak many languages: movements when you’re in the saddle and out of it, facial expressions, words that mean things and words that don’t.”

“Fine notion, that,” said Blackwall, who had taken up residence in the Skyhold stables and had a particular fondness for horses. “Well put, Inquisitor.”

Fynn inclined his head in thanks, and then, slipping his right foot from the stirrup, swung his leg over Orlebar’s back and dismounted. The gelding shook himself out, earning an affectionate pat on the neck.

“Thank you for the ride, my friend,” Fynn told him.

Harding inched a step closer, venturing to hold out the flat of her hand. Orlebar extended his neck to snuffle her palm, and she smiled.

“Hello there,” she said. “Nice to see you again.”

Fynn was struck with fondness. “He likes you.”

Harding rubbed the velvety place between Orlebar’s nostrils. “I like him, too.” She moved away, tucking her hands at the small of her back as she did when she stepped into her formal role. “Good to see you safe, Inquisitor. We’ve got trouble ahead.”

Fynn’s grip on Orlebar’s reins tightened, and the gelding tossed his head. “If you’re worried, then everyone in the Inquisition should be on alert.” It was meant somewhat teasingly, but there was a ring of truth in it. Harding was unflappable, and if she was on edge, it was to be taken with gravity.

“Or,” said Harding, “you _could_ increase my hazard pay. That’s an option.”

Fynn barked a laugh, and Harding chuckled, too. “I’ll look into it,” he told her.

She sobered some, tipping her head toward the lake. “That aside, it’s pretty dire here. See that?” She pointed to a green haze on the water.

“The rift,” said Fynn.

“It’s not the only one in the area,” Harding told him, “but after it appeared, corpses started walking out the lake. You’ll have to fight through them to get to the cave where Hawke’s Grey Warden friend is hiding.”

The arrival of the Champion of Kirkwall had come as a shock to Fynn and everyone else in the Inquisition. Few people had actually seen him other than Varric and Fynn himself, but his presence had struck awe into everyone in Skyhold. It was almost as if the Hero of Ferelden had come, if a little more cavalier than she. Fynn had been honored to meet him, and was glad for his aid in finding out what was happening to the Wardens. His sister was one, Fynn had learned.

“Can we get to the rift under the lake?” Fynn asked Harding.

She sucked her teeth, hesitant. “Only if you drain it.”

Fynn’s eyebrows rose, his surprise apparent. “Is that possible?”

“Yes. There’s a dam. It’s not going to be easy to get to with all the bandits around, but I’m sure you can manage.”

“‘Manage,’” said Fynn wryly. “Yes, I enjoy that notion.”

He nearly expected her to laugh, as it had been intended as a jest, but instead she put her hand on his forearm.

“You can,” she said softly. “I know it.”

Though he could barely feel her touch through his bracers, he swallowed at the intimacy. A quick glance around revealed that no one else was paying them any attention. Turning his hand up, he gripped her wrist with gratitude.

A scout approached then, asking, in reference to Orlebar, “May I take him for you, Inquisitor?”

Fynn kept a protective hold on the reins, wishing to see to the horse himself, but at Harding’s look, he relinquished them. “All right. Give him a good rub along the girth.”

“Do,” said Harding. “You’ll get a good laugh out of it.”

The scout saluted with his free hand, leading Orlebar away with the other.

Fynn paused to roll his shoulders back, loosening them. “Does Herrin have anything to eat perchance?” he asked.

Harding replied, “For you? Certainly.”

Together, they went to the fireside. The rain kept the flames subdued, but there was a pot bubbling over them, the smell of cooking meat making Fynn’s stomach rumble. Blackwall joined them, along with Cole and Dorian. Cole’s hat was hanging even lower over his eyes than it did when it was dry, hiding him further. Dorin’s dampness seemed not to faze him as he leaned on the crystal-topped staff he carried.

“So you,” he said, “are the fabled Scout Harding.”

She blinked up at him, a drop of rain running down her cheek as it fell there. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Of course,” said Dorian. “There’s a song about you sung at the Herald’s Rest.”

“There isn’t!” she hissed. “Maryden _promised_ should wouldn’t perform that.”

Dorian huffed. “And you believed a minstrel? They’ll sell you out for a hot meal, if not less.” He twisted the tip of his mustache. “It’s a fine song. Adds to your mystique.”

Harding rubbed a hand over her face, clearly embarrassed. Fynn hadn’t heard the song, but he would have to make a point of it when they got back to Skyhold. However, he could commiserate with her chagrin; after all, he preferred not to hear the songs about him.

“Leave off her, magister,” Blackwall scolded. “Not everyone enjoys hearing about their own legacy as much as a Tevinter.”

Dorian shot him a glare, but it melted into nonchalance as quickly as it had come. “My apologies, Miss Harding.”

“No harm done,” she muttered, unconvincing.

Herrin had a bowl of hot soup in his hands for Fynn, but everyone around the fire froze as they heard an frightening howl from the lakeshore. There was a stout stone wall between them and the bank, but as Fynn peered over it, he could see half a score of ghouls shambling up out of the water.

“To arms!” he called, unlashing his bow from his back in a moment and nocking an arrow.

Beside him, Harding brandished her own bow and an arrow, charging to the wall and stepping up onto it with remarkable nimbleness to take aim. She knelt on the stones, firing with deadly skill. Her bolt struck a corpse in the head, felling it.

Fynn took position nearby, though behind the wall, for it would not carry his weight. His own weapon was twice the size of Harding’s, but he was no more accurate than she.

Dorian lept into action, too, casting ice spells toward the corpses from Fynn’s side. Blackwall and Cole vaulted the wall to venture down to the beach to face the ghouls with their blades.

Arrow after arrow was loosed between Fynn and Harding, each keeping pace with the other. Fynn’s nerves were running high with the thrill of combat, but he gave passing attention to her just to admire the skill with which she wielded her bow.

When the last corpse fell, it was at the tip of one of Harding’s arrows. The quiet that ensued was immediate and unsettling, the lapping of the water at the lake’s edge and the hiss of the rain the only sounds. Fynn did, though, feel the thumping of his heart in his breast.

“Bloody dead,” Dorian grumbled. “We’d best get this all attended to quickly.”

“We will,” said Fynn. To Harding: “You’re damn good with that bow. Impressive.”

Harding held tight to the wood, regarding it fondly. “Thank you. I learned to shoot as a girl, but I’ve only gotten better in the past few months.” She gestured to Fynn. “You once again proved yourself.”

“I’m glad to,” he said. “To you, anyway.”

“Bollocks to the rest of us, eh?” Dorian mocked. “Not surprising you go for the pretty one.”

“I’m not—” Harding started. “It’s not—”

Dorian landed a gloved hand on her shoulder. “Can’t pretend the gentlemen don’t notice you, Miss Scout.” Chuckling, he sauntered back toward the fire.

“Don’t mind him,” Fynn said, somewhat annoyed.

Harding looked after Dorian, her brow knit.

At her concern, Fynn said, “He’s not wrong, though. About you.”

She came to face him. “What?”

Fynn, to his utter shame, felt heat in his face. “You’re very fine,” he managed to say.

Harding’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide. “I— Ah, I’m…”

“Nothing needs be said,” he was quick to offer. “Fine, and a fine archer. You did the Inquisition proud just now.”

She took a moment to recover, but, comprehending his readjustment of course, nodded. “Thank you.”

“My Lord Inquisitor,” Herrin called from the fireside. “Will you have your supper now?”

Once, months ago, Fynn might have been unable to eat so soon after a fight, but now he was conditioned to take what nourishment he could when it was possible. And the conflicts were so common that his pulse slowed shortly after they were done, his head clear.

He went to Herrin and took the proffered bowl and spoon, having a taste of the fragrant stew. “You used to cook for the king of Ferelden?” Fynn asked.

“Aye, Your Worship.”

“What made you want to join the Inquisition?”

Herrin scratched the back of his thick neck. “Well,” he started, “it was a matter of familiarity, I’d say, Inquisitor. I’m most comfortable as an army man. And the Inquisition is doing good in Thedas. I’m making myself useful here, and that’s a good purpose.”

Fynn looked down at the vegetables in his stew: crushed turnips, carrots, potatoes. They were carefully sliced and prepared, the food delicious. He could not prepare food himself; he’d never been taught as a nobleman’s son. He hadn’t been much use at anything other than horse breeding and hunting, neither of which were wholly useful in the grand scheme of things.

He was fair fighter, though, at the head of the Inquisition, and had done well enough by them since he’d taken up the mantle. That was purpose, he reckoned, and he could see how Herrin craved it: to be useful.

“That’s as good a reason as any,” Fynn said. “And we’re glad to have you.”

Herrin gave a shy, rumbled, “My thanks, Inquisitor.”

Harding was nearby them, watching with a soft expression. She was fond of Herrin herself, which seemed easy enough. Fynn had grown to trust his companions deeply as they traveled, and it was certain that Harding felt the same about her small scouting party. Part of him envied their days spent in her company, rather than a few scattered meetings. He wished to know her better.

“Scout Harding,” he said. “May I have a word with you?”

She glanced up over her bowl, concern in her expression, but nodded. “Of course, Your Worship.”

They both set down their empty bowls, leaving the fireside with the eyes of all assembled on them. There was no impropriety in a private conversation, Fynn knew, but still he suspected there was speculation among them. Herrin looked outright pleased, Dorian knowing. Only Cole was unbothered, his spirit’s focus elsewhere.

Harding led him to the wall where they had fought together, the dark of evening having descended while they ate, making the lake seem black and endless. The haunting green mist hovered above its center, but otherwise it was obscured.

“Is everything all right?” Harding asked when they were out of earshot.

“Oh,” Fynn fumbled. “Yes. I, ah, simply wanted to ask if you were well.”

Harding cocked her head, curious. “Me?”

He nodded hurriedly. “It’s hard work you do for the Inquisition, and I thought...well, it’s not often I’m asked after, other than if I have any wounds. Perhaps it’s the same for you.”

“It is,” said Harding. “That’s not something we talk about most days.” She brought her small hands together at her front. “It’s kind of you to say something.”

“Well,” Fynn said, a prompt, “are you well?”

She replied, “I am. Well, as best as I can be in a place like this. There are so many troubles in Thedas that sometimes it seems overwhelming. We come to do our best to set it right, but I don’t have much to do with that part. That’s you.” She peered at him, green eyes shadowed by the coming night. “Are _you_ well, Fynn?”

He regarded her in return, speaking honestly, “I didn’t believe I’d be good Inquisitor, but I think I might be doing well. That’s not something I expected.” He huffed. “You always believed in me, and I’m grateful for that. I hope I’ve earned it.”

“A hundred times over,” she said, strident. “You seem tireless.”

Fynn ran a damp hand over his face. “I’m not. Sometimes I wish for my bed and three long days to lie in it. But as you said, there are so many troubles.” He gestured to the lake. “There’s no one else who could put a stop to this. I want to be helpful. Useful, like Herrin.”

“You’re hardly just a tool to close rifts,” Harding insisted. “Many people look to you, even those beyond the Inquisition. You were meant for this, Fynn. Even if it wasn’t Andraste’s will, something brought you to us.”

“Whatever brought you, too,” he said, “I’m glad for it.”

She went to salute, but he snapped his hand out and stopped her with his fingers around her fist.

“You don’t need to do that when we’re alone,” he told her.

“Will we be alone often?” she said.

Fynn’s voice stuck in his throat, his burst of self-assuredness faltering. Despite that, however, he replied, “I would wish we could see more of each other.”

Her hand flexed under his as if to turn and lace her fingers with his, but she did not. But neither did she pull away from his touch.

After a moment, she said, hushed, “I wish for that, too.”

A splash from the lake’s bank set them both on alert, turning toward the source of the sound. Fynn’s free hand went to the knife he still wore. Harding tensed, too, but then they heard the hoarse call of a gull and another splash as it took flight from the water’s surface.

“No rest,” he murmured, half to himself.

“Maybe we’ll have a chance for it someday,” said Harding. “When this is all over.”

“If we can find a spare hour,” Fynn said stolidly, “I’d like to spend it with you. In Skyhold, perhaps, if we cross paths there.”

Harding smiled just slightly. “I’d like that very much.”

Fynn released her then and they returned to the fire to speak of the next day’s business. The scouts would be packing up at first light, and Fynn would be bound for his duties.


	7. Chapter 7

###  **The Forbidden Oasis, Orlais**

A distinct feeling of unease came with their entrance into the desert wastes of western Orlais. The horses sensed it first, Orlebar shifting under Fynn, tossing his head and blowing great breaths from round nostrils. Fynn did his best to soothe him with rubs on the shoulder and soft murmurs of comforting nonsense, but he himself soon began to shudder unpleasantly at the air that seemed to hum with foreboding.

The Forbidden Oasis lay across Thedas from the Crestwood, and the journey—with a short rest in Skyhold—had taken nearly two fortnights. Fynn might have said he was weary, but traveling was the center of his days now, and those spent _not_ on the road were scarce. He did crave a bath, the sand of the desert already working its way into the nooks of his clothes and sticking to his skin, but he was not expecting something so indulgent.

They had come here to deal with the matter of the ocularum shards, which set Fynn on edge more than intrigued him. There was no small measure of magic baked into them, and as he and his companions stopped at the rear camp at the Oasis, he believed he could taste the metallic flavor of latent spells on the scant breezes. The uneasiness persisted.

His boots sank into the sand as he dismounted, and he kept his hands on the saddle to steady himself. Iron Bull, for whom Dennet had secured a mount twice Orlebar’s size, grunted when he landed on the ground, scowling.

“Quite the change from the lake, eh?” Varric observed, his mood apparently unaffected the malaise of the Oasis. “At least we’ll dry out.”

Bull squinted up at the harsh sun and, unlashing his waterskin, took a long, silent pull.

“There is a strong presence here,” said Solas. His voice was crisp, and if he had been an animal, Fynn might have seen his long ears prick with interest. Kneeling, he scooped up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. “Old, angry magic. I would very much like to dream here.”

Fynn watched him warily. He was thankful for the elf’s insight into the hidden history of the places they visited. No one else would have had his connection to the Fade’s shadow, where it fell all across the land. Still, it seemed he was withholding something, a secret that kept Fynn from putting all his trust in him. The others didn’t seem perturbed, so he attempted to convince himself it was imagined suspicion, but when he eyed Solas, something did not sit right.

“We can make time for it,” Fynn told him as he stood.

Solas turned a penetrating gaze on him, offering a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, Inquisitor. It would be appreciated.”

As if summoned by the invocation of his title, Inquisition scouts arrived to greet them. Horses were handed over to be untacked, rubbed down, and fed, and Fynn was pleased to see that old Herrin was present, his stained teeth on display as he grinned.

“Inquisitor!” he called. “Have you eaten?” The old refrain.

“Not since breakfast,” Fynn replied.

Herrin made a disapproving noise. “That won’t do, Your Worship. I’ll put the stew on.” He made his way to where the embers of a forgotten fire were still smoldering, nimble for a man with a rotund middle and upwards of fifty years old. He crouched and began to stir the embers back to life, picking up a log and tossing it into them in a shower of sparks. The warmth wasn’t needed in the desert heat, but a hot meal beside the flames was more than enticing. What would make it even better would be a cup of wine.

Fynn, tugging off his riding gloves, glanced around the camp, taking in the now-weathered tents and uniform layers hanging on a clothes line. That hinted that maybe there _was_ water for bathing. He’d have to inquire. Perhaps Scout Harding would know. His interest shifted then to where she might be.

“Looking for the miss, Your Worship?” asked Herrin gruffly. He was poking at the logs as they caught fire, his eyes on Fynn.

Fynn, so caught out, chuckled. “I was. Is she here?”

Herrin tipped his head westward, where three figures were coming up over a dune. There was no mistaking Harding’s stature and coloring, even if a bit sand-covered. It ameliorated the nervy feeling of the Oasis; Fynn was very glad to see her.

“Inquisitor,” she said when they arrived. She saluted. “You made it.”

“Thanks to your map, we did,” he told her.

From his belt pouch, he drew the parchment Leliana had provided for them in Skyhold. It had come from Harding via raven and had been indispensable during their travels. It was not overly elaborate, but had some small flourishes in the symbols for mountains and rivers, a pair of ravens sketched in the corner along with a compass rose adorned with small rosebuds, like those on Fynn’s quiver.

He said, “You’d be a fine mapmaker.”

For a moment, he thought it was the heat alone, but the color in Harding’s cheeks proved to be a pleased flush at his compliment as she said, “Thank you. I used to draw a little as a girl.”

Fynn, no wordsmith, said, “You have a good hand for it. Like scouting. But, ah, different, obviously.”

A huff came from Herrin behind him, and he nearly winced.

To his relief, however, Harding didn’t seem disappointed in his clumsiness. She hitched her thumbs in her belt and said, “Shall I tell you about the Oasis?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Please.”

She turned to the distant rock faces, pointing. “It’s actually quite the sight, I have to say. The oasis itself is further in, along with the temple.”

“Temple?” Fynn asked.

“Right. The oldest parts are elven, but there’s Tevinter architecture, too.” She rounded on Fynn. “There’s no way in that we can find, but maybe your mage could.” A slight frown crossed her face. “Honestly, I don’t like the feel of the place. No one does.”

Fynn nodded. “If it’s anything like here, I can understand why.”

“It’s stranger," said Harding, "if you can believe it. Makes your skin crawl. A mining company out of Val Firmin used to have an interest here. The standard story is that the economy moved on and they left, but rumors are a little more sinister.”

Fynn gestured for her to continue.

“Some of the locals on our way here told us that the miners started acting...wrong.” She wet her lips. “They were seeing things, they said, hearing whispers. They claimed the temple was driving the miners insane. Nobody goes near it.”

“Delightful,” Fynn muttered.

“I found an ocularum,” Harding continued. “I can draw you a map before you go into the oasis.”

“Thank you. Is there anything else I should know?”

She shifted her weight between her feet, looking up as she thought. “Not much more to tell. Now that you’re here, we’ll be moving on.”

Fynn couldn’t say he was surprised to hear it, but the disappointment was still acute. He asked, “Tomorrow morning? You’ll be here tonight?”

Harding regarded him steadily, and he might have seen a hint of good humor in her eyes. “Yes. We’ll pack up at first light.”

He considered dropping the matter there, asking for her to draw the map of the ocularum, and letting her go about her business, but then, instead, found himself asking, “Is there fresh water in the oasis?” He looked at the drying laundry. “To wash?”

“There is,” she told him. “It’s actually very lovely. The water’s cool, but not cold. I washed up this morning.” She paused, bit her cheek, and then: “Would you like me to show you?”

Fynn’s stomach did an odd little flip, a thrill, and he said, “You and I?”

Again, Harding’s cheeks pinkened. “Well, I could send you with someone else.”

“No,” he said hurriedly. “No, I’d like to go. With you.”

“If you want to bring a skin to fill up with more to drink…” Her gaze alighted on the one that hung over his shoulder. “Oh, you already have one. We can go, then. If you’d like.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I’ll just let the others know where you’re off to,” Herrin called as Fynn and Harding stepped away from the fire. “Supper in an hour.”

Harding gave him a wave, and as Fynn went along with her, he spotted Varric and Iron Bull peering with blatant interest at them. He turned his face away, watching where he placed his feet in the sand.

Relentless sun beat down from above, forcing him to squint ahead where the glistening waver of heat shone above a flatter surface of packed dirt. It was cracked with dryness as they went onto it, his boot heels crunching.

“Was your journey here smooth?” he asked Harding to break the silence.

“About as smooth as can be expected for scouting a land without any roads,” she replied. “We were glad for a change in weather. I heard you found Hawke's Grey Warden friend?”

“Yes,” said Fynn. “Alistair.”

Harding was clearly surprised. "Truly? What was he like?"

Fynn scuffed his toe in the yellow dirt, creating a puff of grit and dust. “I expected someone more—I’m not sure how to describe it—out of the legends? He’s a good man to be sure, but there’s no romance to his...wardeness.”

“I met a pair of Wardens once back home,” Harding told him. “They were road-weary, their armor marked up and used. There wasn’t much romance about them, either. I was a little disappointed, to be honest. I had expected much of what you had: them riding in on griffons with blades stained with darkspawn blood.”

Fynn laughed lightly. “That’s more like it. I grew up on stories of the Hero of Ferelden, a dwarf from Dust Town who rose up beyond her humble beginnings to love the man who would be king. And then he turned down the crown to be with her as a Warden. It’s a fantastic story. Did you know it well yourself growing up?”

“Sure,” Harding said, “and I played pretend with sticks for a swords to fight the archdemon. Doesn’t every child go through a phase where they want to be a Grey Warden?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” said Fynn. “I just wanted to ride in the hunts and raise horses.”

Harding glanced at him. “You’ve definitely ended up in a different place.”

Fynn snorted. “Assuredly. I’d never have imagined a place like this. It was mostly forests and fields in the bannorn. Not much unlike the Hinterlands, actually.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the Free Marches someday,” Harding told him.

“If we survive this,” Fynn said, “I’ll take you myself.”

Over the crest of a hill, the desert descended into an incongruously green space, a pool of water at its center glinting invitingly. Fynn nearly sighed with bliss.

He and Harding slid partway down to the hillock and to the bank, where Fynn knelt and dipped his hand into the water. As promised, it was cool but not frigid. It would feel divine on the rest of him.

He moved his hand to his quiver, pulling it over his shoulders and off to lie on the ground. His bow followed it, his hands then moving to his jerkin to unlace the leather. He paused, however, turning his head to catch sight of Harding, who was standing a pace or two behind and to his right, looking uncertain.

“Ah,” he started, equally unsure, “you needn’t stay if you have other things to attend to.” After all, he reckoned, he planned on stripping down to nothing and all but diving into the water.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Harding said. “We always travel in pairs, remember?” She rubbed the back of her neck.

“Oh yes,” said Fynn. “I had forgotten.”

Harding shuffled back a step. “I’ll just go to the top of the hill and stand watch.”

Fynn extended a hand, halting her. “No, wait. I’ll be quick about it. And I’ll stay a bit dressed.” He smiled shakily, tightening his hands into fists to keep from fidgeting.

“All right,” Harding agreed.

She still averted her eyes as Fynn undressed down to his undergarments, which he did hastily before going into the water. It was indeed perfect, and deep enough that he could stand up to his chest and toss handfuls of coolness over his shoulders. He dunked his head to wet his hair, having untied it so that it hung down the back of his neck.

As he scrubbed away the filth of the road, he kept one eye on Harding. She was a discrete distant away, hands behind her back and in profile. 

“Is it good?” she asked, a bit hesitant, her voice low.

“Perfect,” Fynn replied. “I’m nearly done.”

“There’s no rush,” Harding said. “Herrin said an hour before supper. We have ample time.” She peered at the water. “I wouldn’t mind dipping my feet.”

Fynn beckoned her. “You’re welcome. Come on.”

Sitting at the bank, she unlaced her stout boots and, pulling off her socks, slipped her small feet into the water. She patted them against the surface, childlike, and Fynn grinned.

“Do most dwarves swim?” he asked.

“The surfacers, yes,” she told him, “but rarely those from Orzammar. There’s nowhere to do it there, or so I’ve heard.” She pursed her lips, seemingly disapproving. “I don’t think I could live without the fresh air outside. Or the sunshine.”

“Agreed,” said Fynn. “There were dwarven ruins on the Storm Coast. It’s remarkable what they can hew from stone, but I wouldn’t want to live exclusively within a mountain or under it.”

Harding nodded. “I probably won’t go there, even though I’ve now seen more of Thedas that I ever dreamed I would. They don’t treat surfacers very well, especially the royals. They say we’ve lost our connection on the stone, to the ancestors. My father had a small shrine in our cottage, but I never saw him make reverence.” She blinked at Fynn. “Do you have great faith in the Maker?”

“Not anywhere near what my sister had,” he replied. “I went to hear recitations of the Chant when I was young, but I stopped going when my mother stopped forcing me to.” He ran his hands over the surface of the pool idly. “It’s why I have trouble believing Andraste chose me for this task. I believe it was chance alone that I wasn’t killed.”

Harding was somber, looking down at her feet where the water lapped over them. “I don’t have any great faith myself, and fate is a stretch, but chance doesn’t seem to do it justice.”

Fynn stepped closer to her, though not within arm’s reach. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, eyes turned up to him again.

“Your belief in _me_.”

That earned him a narrow smile. “I’m far from the only one. You’ve proven yourself ten times over. The troops, my scouts, they all look to you, even if they don’t believe in the Maker. The Inquisition believes in _you_.”

Fynn could find no words for that, so he stayed quiet, but he keep his focus on Harding, who did not glance away. Heat prickled his skin, but not that of desert. He was sharply aware of how exposed he was before her, and in that moment an appraising flick of her eyes suggested interest in his state of undress.

Were he a more wicked man, he would go to her and yank her into the water with him, clothes and all. She might curse him, but she also might laugh and put her arms around his neck. That image stirred him, blood dropping between his legs.

Even before he had left Ostwick, it had been a significant time since he had been with a woman. He’d had a few lovers among the local noblemen’s daughters, but none had stuck long enough for him to consider more than a dalliance. Their bodies had felt good under his hands and around the more intimate parts of him, and yet he had never craved their company deeply; he was well enough without.

Watching pretty Harding on the pool’s bank, though, desire woke, and he was more curious than he had been in his memory about what her skin would feel like against his palms. He wasn’t exactly sure how he might lie with her without covering and crushing her, but he wasn’t unimaginative. Had she been with humans before, he wondered.

In the distance, a whistle sounded, drawing her attention and his.

“That will be supper,” she said, pulling her legs from the water. “Are you ready?”

Fynn waded out of the pool, his underthings sticking to his legs, and dried himself with his shirt. He put it back on damp to protect himself from the sun’s burn.

He went with Harding back to camp, where Bull, Solas, and Varric were already sitting around the fire with bowls of stew. Varric’s clever looks between them—Fynn wet and Harding dry—seemed to be a disappointment.

“Here you are, Your Worship,” said Herrin, offering Fynn a bowl.

He took it and sat.

Harding chose a place across the fire, but, picking up a stick, began to draw a map in the sand of where the temple they would visit the next day lay. Fynn paid rapt attention, even if there were times when his gaze tracked to her face and he recalled the pretty white feet she’d dunked in the water as he bathed.


	8. Chapter 8

###  **Skyhold**

Any return to Skyhold came with the burden of visiting dignitaries. Josephine had an itinerary for the moment Fynn entered the fortress. He knew the importance of the meetings and dinners, but when all he wanted to do was fall into a bath and then bed, it tried his patience. Still, he wouldn’t give the Inquisition a bad name by insulting those who came to pledge their help or otherwise ally themselves.

“The Marquis de la Fontaine will retire, Your Worship,” Josephine was telling him after an evening meal had been served and eaten over negotiations and niceties. “I do hope you will also get some rest.”

“I plan to,” Fynn said.

And yet there was little allure to his quarters just then. Instead, he ventured out for a walk, leaving the upper courtyards and going down to where light was spilling onto the scrubby ground from the Herald’s Rest. The sounds of conversation and general merriment came from inside, and he found himself drawn.

He was recognized immediately upon his entrance, and the soldiers cheered and welcomed him. Bull and Krem offered him a drink, which he accepted as they peppered him with pointed questions about his most recent travels. They had remained behind to work another job, and Fynn got the full story of it.

A puff of cool wind heralded the arrival of others, and in glancing toward the door Fynn caught sight of flaming red hair. He craned his neck and was rewarded with Scout Harding making her way toward the bar.

“Gentlemen,” he said to Bull and Krem, “if you’ll excuse me.”

Bull roared a laugh and slapped Fynn on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Good hunting, Boss. Good hunting.”

Fynn had had enough ale by then—following wine at dinner—that he wasn’t embarrassed. No, he simply cut his way through the drinkers to Harding’s side. She cast a passing glance at him at first, but then turned back, clearly not having expected to see him.

“My Lord Inquisitor,” she said. Correcting herself: “Fynn.”

“Scout Harding,” he said. “You’ve returned here?”

“For a day,” she replied. “To rest and resupply. I didn’t know you were back as well.”

Fynn grinned crookedly. “As I had hoped, we’re meeting here at last. I can buy you that drink I promised in Haven.”

She smiled in return. “I thought you might have forgotten about that.”

“No,” he told her. “I wouldn’t.”

They kept their eyes on one another for a time, but then Fynn rapped his knuckles on the bar and called for two ales. They were delivered in short order, foaming and cool as the night air outside. Within the tavern, it was quite warm.

“Come sit with me,” Fynn said to Harding. He tipped his head toward an empty table in the far corner, thankfully private. He bore their drinks to it, where they slipped into seats across from each other. He slid Harding’s ale to her.

“To promised drinks,” he said by way of a toast.

Harding, clearly amused, tapped her mug against his, and they both drank. Fynn wiped foam from his upper lip, as did Harding, if a bit more demurely. Fynn admired her: beautifully plaited hair at odds with serviceable trousers and a leather jerkin. She did not have her bow, but then again, neither did Fynn when he was at Skyhold.

“When did you arrive?” he asked.

“About three hours ago,” Harding replied. “I was able to have a bath and get something to eat. I’ve got a change of uniform coming, which is long overdue.”

Fynn frowned. “Have you not been supplied well enough?”

She waved him off. “No, no, we’re fine. I’ve just worn through a pair or two of breeches.” Looking him over, she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your leathers.”

He patted down his front, the red woolen jacket over a linen shirt. His gloves were tucked into his belt. “This is nice for a change,” he said. “A little more comfortable. Does it suit me?”

“It does,” said Harding. She took a sip of ale. “How long will you be at Skyhold?”

“Another few days at the most,” Fynn replied. “There’s trouble in the Western Approach, with the Wardens.”

She nodded. “We’re headed there to scout ahead for you tomorrow.”

“What would we do without you, Scout Harding?” Fynn mused.

“Lace,” she said.

Fynn paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. “Pardon me?” he asked.

“You insist I call you by your name,” she replied, “so you should use mine. It’s Lace.”

Fynn’s breast filled with pleasure at the intimacy of it, even if it was only a name. “It’s very nice,” he told her.

She laughed. “My mother, the seamstress, was _very_ dedicated to her craft. Don’t tell anyone, all right?”

Holding up his right hand, Fynn said, “I swear it’ll not come from my lips. Unless it’s to you.” He watched her gaze move conspicuously down to those lips he spoke of, and he felt a kick of desire. Did she wish to kiss him? If she had at least thought of it, he liked the notion.

“Thank you,” she said. “Fynn. Is that a family name?”

“Not that I know of,” he replied. “Something my mother liked, I’m sure. And it’s far simpler than the others in my family: Aerona, Mererid, Taliesin.”

“Do you miss them?” Lace asked.

Fynn blinked down at his ale. “Does it make be a terrible brother if I tell you that I don’t? We were so different. We barely spent any time together.”

“You’re not a terrible brother,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I had a sibling or two, but the friends I have here are enough. Maybe better.”

“I think they are,” said Fynn. “Strange though the company may be, I know those I fight with better than I knew my own family. Not all of them, perhaps, but at least a few.”

Lace tapped her fingers against the wooden mug, thoughtful. “It’s not quite a family, but it’s close. The Inquisition is unlike anything I’ve ever known.”

Fynn could agree, and said as much.

“Is there anyone in particular in Ostwick waiting for you?” Lace inquired.

“Other than my family?” Fynn asked.

She nodded. “Someone special?”

Realization dawned. Fynn said, “A lover? No.” He eyed Lace. “Is there someone for you?”

“There weren’t many of my kind in the Hinterlands,” she said. “And humans don’t care overmuch for dwarves. At least not for romance.”

Fynn held her gaze, unable to deny that that was often true of his people. However, he said, “They’re fools.”

Lace’s red eyebrows inched up. “Is that… Do you mean that you—”

“Is that so hard to believe?” he said. “Don’t you think there are beautiful dwarven women? And men, I suppose.”

“Well, yes,” she began, “but humans seem to favor other humans, or elves. I think it’s the height.”

“It didn’t stop the Hero of Ferelden and Warden Alistair,” Fynn pointed out. “In the paintings of them, she always stands half his height and still he looks at her like she hangs the moon.”

Lace pressed her lips together, looking somewhat dreamy. “It’s a nice story. There were a few lads around Redcliffe I could have fancied, but they never looked my way. Who wants to marry the shepherd, anyway?”

“You’re not a shepherd anymore,” said Fynn. “Is the Inquisition’s lead scout not quite the catch?”

She flushed, warming him from the inside out. “I don’t know about that.”

Fynn itched to take her hands in his, to assure her that she was just as he said and more. He simply wasn’t certain how much further he could go. This was not something he was practiced at. But he knew he didn’t want to go on while they were in the tavern; he needed her alone.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked.

She looked at her half-drunk ale and then back up at him. “Of course.”

They went slowly through the building, to the door, and out into the courtyard. The moon—perhaps hung by the Hero of Ferelden for her Warden love after all—was white like the top of a fingernail, just a sliver of light in the sky.

“Where to?” Lace said from next to him. Indeed, she was barely half his height, but Fynn wasn’t perturbed. If he wished to look her in the eye, he could kneel. There was something deeply affectionate about that, and it stirred him.

“Maybe the upper courtyard,” said Fynn. “It’s quiet at this hour.”

“Everywhere is quiet at this hour,” Lace observed.

Fynn hummed his agreement. He ambled toward the staircase that would take them up, his steps measured to ensure he didn’t stride past Lace. She was surefooted and quick, easily keeping up with him, even if neither of them were in a hurry.

“The castle is a wonder,” she said as they walked. “There’s a lot of elven magic tied up in all this. Your Anchor and Corypheus, the Breach. And Skyhold, too.”

“I know so little about the elves,” said Fynn. “Dalish or otherwise. Solas has helped me, but there’s too much history for me to truly grasp it.”

“It’s strange how we all live together and yet know so little about one another,” Lace said. “But I’ve learned more from my scouts. And you’ve talked to Iron Bull about the Qunari, haven’t you?”

Fynn exhaled. “Now there’s a culture that’s even more difficult to understand.”

“It’s true,” said Lace. “And Tevinter. Dorian isn’t much like the rest of them, I think.”

“He’s not like anyone else,” Fynn said, chuckling.

Lace laughed lightly too.

Their boots crunched against the gravel as they walked, the lone sound after leaving the tavern. In the distance, Fynn could see a bench shadowed by an oak. Anyone passing by would take little notice of someone sitting on it, so he led Lace there and sat, inviting her to join him. She put the width of Fynn’s hand between their legs, but did not sit unduly far from him. If he dared, he might touch her again.

“It’s so silent,” she said. “It’s like this in the wilderness, but there’s no danger here. It’s a welcome respite.”

“It’s taken work to make the place livable,” said Fynn. “A world of difference, though. Where do you stay when you’re here? Surely not down with the troops.”

“No,” she told him. “There’s a stretch of old barracks the other side of the stables where they find rooms for us. Nothing permanent, but a place to get a forty winks while they fill our packs again.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not the fancy chambers you’ve been given, or so I’ve heard.”

He groaned. “Josephine says it’s for appearances.”

“Who exactly is seeing your private chambers?” She must have spoken before she thought the better of it, for she slapped her hand over her mouth right after. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered.

“You’re right, though,” said Fynn. “It’s not a place I entertain the Inquisition’s visitors. No one but me and the servants have been up there.”

“It was none of my business,” she insisted.

Fynn saw her there, abashed and looking out into the darkened courtyard. Her profile was sturdy and handsome, one piece of hair escaping the braid by her temple.

“Lace.”

He said it as he reached up to cup her cheek, guiding her to face him. He sat higher than she did and had to stoop slightly to press his mouth to hers.

Her lips were soft, if a little dry, but they gave under Fynn’s as he kissed her. She made a small sound of surprise as he did it, though she didn’t draw away. Indeed, she leaned into him, and Fynn let his eyes fall closed.

As they parted some time later, he touched her brow, searching her face. “I’ve been wanting to do that for quite a while.”

“You have?” she said on a breath.

Fynn nodded. “But, if you’d rather I didn’t, you have only to say.”

“No!” she said, grasping his arms. “I mean, yes. That is…I wanted it, too. I just didn’t think you’d ever…” She trailed off, turning her eyes down.

“Why not?” he asked.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” she replied, “and I’m nobody. You’re a nobleman. And human. Humans don’t— Well, you remember.”

Fynn moved his fingers to her jaw, gentle and with care. “And I said they were fools.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “Yes, you did. But I didn’t think you meant me. That you, ah, found me…” She trailed off.

“Beautiful,” Fynn said. “I do. I think you’re utterly lovely, Lace.”

She averted her eyes again. “I–I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assured her, taking her hand. “You’re a remarkable woman. Bold. Fearless even.”

“Oh, I’m afraid of a lot of things,” she said. “I’m afraid of Corypheus. And dragons.” She glanced at her hand in his. “And this.”

“If you’re not comfortable with it, with me,” said Fynn, “it will be forgotten. Never brought up again.”

“I could never forget about it,” she was quick to say. “I don’t want to. I’m just at a loss. I couldn’t have hoped you would...do _this_.”

Fynn squeezed her fingers. “May I kiss you again?”

Her mouth opened in surprise, drawing Fynn’s gaze to it. When she leaned forward a fraction, he lowered down until he could brush her nose with his.

“Lace?”

“Uh-huh?” she said as her eyes began to close.

Fynn smiled, his lips just touching hers. “You’ve yet to answer me.”

Slipping her fingers into his hair, she pulled him to her. The kiss was hard at first, a sudden assault. But, as Fynn moved his hand to the back of her neck, it softened. Gently, he parted his lips and traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Her mouth was warm as she opened it for him.

Tingling of passion and excitement rushed through Fynn. It had been a long time since he had kissed anyone and certainly no one he fancied as he did Lace Harding. She went happily into his arms, and he held her close, cradling the back of her head. Her hair was thick, not overly smooth, and he yearned to free it from the braid and run his hands through it.

That, however, was a step too far. He did not wish to make a hurried conquest of her. No, he was going to court her as properly as their unusual situation would allow. And that, quite unfortunately, meant spending the night apart.

At last, when they came up for air, both were hazy with satiation, Lace resting one hand on his thigh. She was looking up at him, expression fond. Raising her other hand, she stifled a yawn.

“I should see you to your quarters,” Fynn said.

“No, I can stay,” she protested.

He caressed her face, smiling. “Not when you have to be up and gone in the morning.”

She sighed. “You’re right. But”—she paused—“I wish we had more time together.”

“I’ll see you again in the Approach,” Fynn said. “A fortnight maybe. I’ll think of you all the while.”

“I’ve been doing that—thinking of you, I mean—for quite some time, Fynn,” Lace said.

He bent to kiss her once again, briefly. “Keep doing that. I’ll come to you.”

They rose and made the journey to the barracks on the far side of the stables. Lace insisted he didn’t have to walk the entire way with her, but he did anyway. It didn’t suit for them to join hands; still, they kept close until they reached the barracks, where a guard stood by.

“Inquisitor,” the young woman said, saluting.

He acknowledged her with a nod before turning to Lace. Unsure what she wished for the rest of the Inquisition to know, he didn’t kiss her goodnight. He said simply, “Rest well.”

“See you again soon,” Lace told him, and then she went inside.

Fynn bid the guard good evening and began his walk back to Skyhold proper. He’d sleep with good dreams tonight, he reckoned.


	9. Chapter 9

###  **The Western Approach, Orlais**

There was, Fynn knew, no space for boyish daydreaming in the midst of whatever he was about to face with the desperate, dying Wardens and their false Calling. And yet in the few hushed moments he found as they rode from Skyhold to the far side of Orlais, he thought of Lace, their kisses, and when they would meet again.

Cassandra, ever the pragmatic one, caught him out once or twice, having to call for his attention more than once to get it. But one whisper from Varric and her sharp edges were filed down, and she gave Fynn some leeway with his wandering fancies. Fynn wasn’t exactly certain how Varric was so sure of himself, for no one but the guard at the barracks had seen him and Lace alone together. There was the entirety of the Herald’s Rest, of course, but he couldn't fathom how one drink between a scout and the Inquisitor was grounds for rumors of romance.

Fynn felt no particular compunction to hide what was going on, maintaining silence only for Lace’s benefit. Dallying with the Inquisitor likely wouldn’t be taken so well by everyone, and he didn’t want to put her in a difficult position—more difficult than her daily work already was. Still, he was sure that as soon as he laid eyes on her when they arrived at the forward camp, he would give them away.

“Scout Harding,” Cassandra said after they had handed over their horses and brushed the worst of the road’s dust from their faces and clothes.

“Seeker,” said Lace. “Glad you all made it safely. And with the army behind you?” She peered into the distance, as if she might see them coming.

“They’re a day behind,” Fynn told her, businesslike, “with Cullen at the head. We wanted to get here and see what was going on before them.”

Lace turned to him, expression unchanged, save for the twitch at the corner of her mouth that was for him alone. He yearned to take her into his arms.

“Understood, Your Worship,” she said. “I can’t say they’re going to enjoy it. Between the sandstorms and the viscous wildlife, we haven’t made it far out here. One of my scouts got too close to a poison hot spring and gave me a slightly delirious report of a high dragon overhead.” She rubbed her hands together. “In short, this might just be the worst place in the entire world.”

“A ringing endorsement,” said Varric, wry. “What of the Wardens?”

Lace replied, “We’ve sighted them to the southwest, but haven’t been able to get close enough to tell what they’re doing. That’ll fall to you, I’m afraid.”

“We should make for Adamant as soon as possible,” Hawke interjected, appearing at Fynn’s side. He had ridden ahead from Crestwood along with the fabled Warden Alistair, who had been the contact waiting for them in a hidden cave.

Fynn had nearly been knocked speechless at finding him there, almost expecting to encounter the Hero of Ferelden, too. But Alistair had told them she had gone a personal quest to find a way to extend the lives of the Wardens. The reasoning: to spend more days with her beloved.

One could hear in the intonation of Alistair’s voice how deeply he loved her, and while Fynn was no particular romantic, it had moved him. There was anguish, too, and being parted, but Alistair spoke with surety that they would be reunited—forever, this time.

From the corner of his eye, Fynn saw Alistair appear, still dressed in his silver and blue Warden’s armor. His red-blond hair was disordered as if from sleep, though it was midday.

“Trevelyan,” he said, offering his hand, “glad you made it.”

Fynn shook firmly, still a little disbelieving. “And you.”

He waved toward Lace, who was still standing by. “You’ve got a fine scouting party here, I’ll say that much. They even had a ration of hard cheese to share when we got here.” He smacked his lips. “First I’ve tasted in weeks.”

“He ate all of it,” Lace said, though with a note of endearment.

Alistair was unrepentant, shrugging.

“So,” Fynn prompted, “you haven’t yet been out to Adamant?”

Hawke shook his dark-haired head. “We were waiting for you. We, ah, should have the backup.”

Fynn glanced between two of Thedas’s greatest men and realized with gravity that he was looked to now as they were. His throat constricted, and he had to swallow in the dry air to clear it.

“Of course,” he said. “We’ll leave today, if necessary.”

“I’d say to travel by night,” Lace offered. “You’ll have the cover the darkness and a break from the sun. Rest now, while you can, and go at moonrise. It’s waxing, bright enough.”

Fynn adjusted the fall of the bow at his back, saying, “Very well. We break here and go on foot in a few hours.”

“On foot?” asked Dorian. He clicked his tongue. “Pity.”

Lace said, “The distance is manageable for that.”

“Just like old times, eh, Varric?” said Hawke, waggling his eyebrows. “Up and down the coast. And remember Chateau Haine?”

“Oh, I remember,” Varric grumbled. “You’ll owe me new boots after this.”

From a pouch at his belt, Hawke produced a gold coin, which he flipped with this thumb in Varric’s direction. “Paid in advance,” he said. “Get yourself something nice.”

Varric caught the gold deftly and snorted with amused dismissal.

“Ugh,” Cassandra groused. She was still disinclined to Varric, though she blamed herself, too, for failing to recruit Hawke to be Inquisitor.

Fynn had had a discussion with him about it, during which Hawke had admitted that he was relieved Varric had not turned him over to her.

“You’re better suited for this than I am, Trevelyan,” he had told Fynn. “Kirkwall was enough for me to be champion of. I can’t imagine facing so much of Thedas. You’re a better man.”

“Hardly,” Fynn had insisted. He recalled Lace’s seemingly unwavering faith in him and added, “I can’t fail, for those who believe.”

Hawke had looked him up and down, a slenderer man than Hawke himself and an inch or two shorter. Fynn could imagine how Hawke had fought off a Qunari battlemaster, where he himself likely would have fallen. His bow would be no match for that, though Hawke had faced him with a set of deadly sharp daggers only.

_Better man_ , Fynn had thought. _No._

“Peace, Cassandra,” Fynn said to her now. “We’re all on the same team after all.”

Regretful, she inclined her head. “Of course, Inquisitor. If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to look over.”

“Tough character, her,” said Hawke, his fingers hitched in his trouser pockets.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Varric said. He reached into his jerkin and drew out a battered flask. “Drink?”

Hawke guffawed. “Sure, old friend. Sure.”

They retreated to converse by themselves, and Alistair, too, went his own way. Dorian went to speak with the elven mage lad who worked with the scouts. He’d been teaching him a few tricks, Fynn had learned. No blood magic, however; Dorian didn’t dabble as his father had.

When they had all gone, Fynn was left standing across from Lace, and upon recognizing their solitude, allowed himself a smile.

“Hello,” he said plainly.

Lace echoed him. “Hello.”

There was a pause, both of them searching, but then Fynn said, “Walk with me?”

She nodded, falling into step and leaving the center of camp for a small stand of trees just beyond it.

“We keep meeting in the worst of places, it seems,” Fynn observed as dust stirred and blew into their faces, making him squint.

“But at least the company is good,” said Lace.

“It most certainly is.” He stopped in the meager shade of a scrubby tree. “I don’t want to do anything untoward while the others are around, if that’s something you’d like to avoid.”

She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “I’ve been considering that. It’s no small thing to carry on with...you. Considering your position.”

“I know,” said Fynn, “and I’m sorry for that. If I were a solider, there would be no barrier.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “Some commanding officers don’t look favorably on their soldiers mixing.”

Fynn frowned. “Surely they can’t stop them.”

“True,” Lace conceded.

“And they can’t stop us, either,” Fynn said, lower. “There will be talk, but no one will challenge it. There are some benefits to being Inquisitor: nobody will cross me. It’s you who has to choose what they know.”

She faced the camp, where everyone was looking conspicuously busy and yet were most definitely eyeing her and Fynn. She said, “They’re going to find out anyway.”

“Then,” Fynn started, “I should very much like to kiss you right now.”

That earned him a pink-cheeked smile. “Okay,” she said softly.

Fynn considered having them both sit, but there was no appropriate place. So, instead, he sank to one knee and then the other, putting him at her height. She was struck by it, he could tell, but she didn’t hesitate to touch his face and lean in.

The kiss was so welcome that Fynn’s stomach and chest burned with relief that he could enjoy it once again. Lace held him close, her skin a bit callused against his cheeks. His own fingers were the same: work-worn and marked from drawing a bowstring.

They parted some time later, Fynn brushing his long nose against the tip of hers. He traced the scar on her cheek.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“Oh,” Lace replied. “I, ah, fell down a ravine when I was twelve.”

Fynn drew back. “Maker. Were you badly injured?”

“Broke my left arm,” she said. “And the cut on my cheek. I scraped it on a rock, I think, but I couldn’t say for sure. My mother had to stitch it closed at the top.”

“That must have been awful for you at such a young age,” Fynn said, touching the scar again.

“It hurt, but it wasn’t so bad. I certainly earned a reputation around Redcliffe for it. I learn to write with my right hand while the left was splinted for two months. I was actually one of the few around the village who wrote. My father taught me, along with my figures. He always wanted to make sure I could count my profits from selling sheep.” She made a half-shrugging gesture. “Merchant’s daughter.”

“But you write naturally with your left hand?” Fynn said.

She nodded. “I know it’s wrong, but it came easier than the right. At first, anyway.”

“And you drew. Like the map to the Forbidden Oasis.” He stoked a hand over her hair. “I still have it in my quarters at Skyhold. Did you add the roses to match my quiver?”

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled. “Was it that obvious?”

He grinned. “It was wonderful.”

“What a foolish thing to do,” she said. “Something a village girl would do for the boy she fancied.”

“And did you?” Fynn asked. “Fancy me then?”

Lace sighed, her breath cool on his face. “Yes. From the beginning, really. You were kind when we first met, and handsome. I didn’t see that coming.”

“I’m flattered,” said Fynn. He knew he wasn’t so hard on the eyes, for ladies in Ostwick had preferred him to his brother, but it hit harder coming from Lace.

She shoved his shoulder in playful admonishment. “Don’t tease.”

“I swear upon my family’s honor,” he said, “that it’s the truth. I don’t take it lightly when a beautiful woman finds me attractive. And kisses me so well. And draws me fine maps.”

Lace huffed. “Quite the courtship, mapmaking.”

“It’s going to be unusual,” Fynn had to admit. “Normally, I would offer to take you to dinner or on a ride through the woods. A picnic, falconing. But there’s little chance of that in this world just now.”

“I don’t mine,” said Lace. “I’m not cut out for your bannorn’s formalities. Just a commoner.”

“I don’t care a whit about that, you have to know,” Fynn said. “I’m not my father’s heir, and I likely won’t return. This is my life now. It doesn’t matter where anyone comes from in the Inquisition.”

Lace took his hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs along the sides. “I wouldn’t have thought you would see me as you do. Not many people ever saw me, before.”

Fynn threaded their fingers together, raising each of her fists to his mouth to kiss the knuckles. “You’re radiant.”

They moved in to kiss once more then, resting in each other’s embrace. Fynn knees ached a bit, but he disregarded it, too glad to hold her against his heart.

“We shouldn’t stay too long out here,” she warned when they had kissed their fill—or at least part of their fill. “You need to eat and rest before the sun goes down.”

Fynn reluctantly got to his feet. “What’s Herrin fixed for us this afternoon?”

“Not sure,” she said, “but it’ll be good.”

As they entered the camp again, all eyes turned to them, and far more smiles came than disapproval. Herrin brought provisions for them, though Lace had already had her afternoon meal and didn’t partake. When she went to speak to Nyrine for a bit, Alistair appeared next to Fynn, joining him on a fallen log.

“So,” Alistair began, “you’ve found yourself a fine dwarven lady. She’s lovely.”

Fynn regarded him with something akin to suspicion, and he laughed.

“General admiration, Your Worship. My heart is long-since spoken for.” He looked to Lace. “She reminds me of my Brosca in some ways, though a bit less coarse.”

“Coarse?” Fynn asked, brows raised. “The Hero of Ferelden?”

“She’s a Duster,” Alistair replied, “so yes. And Wardens have no need for decorum. It’s part of her charm, though. Never pulled any punches, and ruthless in a fight.” He let out a long breath. “Maker, I miss her.”

“It’s hard to be away,” Fynn said, his gaze on Lace as well. “All told, we’ve spent only a few days together, and far from alone.”

“Duty,” Alistair said. “We have ours, too, my love and me. But the time you have becomes all the sweeter for it. We had ten long years together after the Blight. It passed like hours. I’ll never have enough of her.”

Fynn glanced at him, awed. “We’ve just started, but I think I might come to feel that way.”

Alistair smiled at him. “I can't speak for all dwarven women, but I can tell you mine loves fiercely. From the looks of yours, she will too.”

“How can you tell?” asked Fynn.

“There’s a light between you. It may have just started to burn now, but it’ll be white hot given time. Take strength from her; I can see you already do.” He laid a hand on Fynn’s shoulder. “And you’ll both need it.”

“Yes,” Fynn said, quiet. Turning to Alistair, he continued: “I hope you can be with your Brosca again when this is all over. I’ll do my best to see that it ends soon.”

Alistair gave him a forlorn smile, if tinged with gratitude. “My thanks.”

They fell silent, seated together as two men whose affection—one boundless and the other just taking shape—was given to the boldest of women in Thedas.


	10. Chapter 10

###  **The Exalted Plains, Orlais**

Having walked the Fade and come out to tell the tale, there’s little else that seems impossible, so facing a civil war and the Freemen of the Dales in the Exalted Plains posed few worries for Fynn.

Hawke’s loss a month ago had affected everyone, especially Varric. But he had been there in the Fade, too, and had the chance to say goodbye to his friend. He didn’t blame Fynn for it. However, he hadn’t spoken once to Alistair before they had left the Western Approach.

Alistair had been the ranking Warden left in Orlais, making him defacto Warden-Commander. He assured Fynn that he wouldn’t be keeping the post, instead returning to Weisshaupt in the Anderfels to sort out with the First Warden who would take over in both Orlais and Ferelden now that Clarel was dead.

He had been efficient at his business, guiding the remaining Wardens to ally with the Inquisition and help stabilize the country. Fynn had left while he was still at Adamant, but by now he was surely on the road to Weisshaupt. There he said he would find Brosca again, and for that Fynn was glad. In a world in upheaval, they deserved to be together.

Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian had returned to Skyhold after the battle was done, sending Bull, Blackwall, and Solas in their place. Solas had made a particular request to come to the Exalted Plains, where the elves had made their final stand against the Exalted March in Andraste’s day.

Now it was the site of another war, this one between the Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard. The Freemen were marauding as well, having abandoned both sides and united under an makeshift banner to make life difficult for everyone, including the Dalish clan that was wandering the area.

Still, Fynn was collected in the face of it, ready to deal with the warring factions and make what peace he could in the Inquisition’s name. Word of his arrival was already making the rounds, likely spread mainly by the scouts in order to stir both sides into a position to negotiate.

The temperate climate and green fields were welcome after the harshness of the Approach, and the muted fall of Orlebar’s hooves on the mossy ground soothed both him and Fynn, who rocked in the saddle as they descended an incline toward the Inquisition camp.

Smoke rose from a bonfire, scouts milling around between the tents and a picket already set up for the horses. Fynn dismounted at the outskirts, giving Orlebar a well-earned pat on the sturdy neck.

“Long way we’ve come, my friend,” he said to the horse. Orlebar snorted as if in agreement, and Fynn took a crumbling mint candy from his pocket and offered it. Orlebar took it greedily, turning to nudge Fynn’s front for more. “Beggar,” Fynn scolded, with affection.

“Your Worship,” said the young elven scout who usually saw to the mounts, “shall I take him?”

“Not today,” Fynn replied. “I’ll see to it.”

The boy ducked his head in assent. “Yes, Your Worship. The grass is thick for grazing by the picket. He’ll be well fed.”

Fynn thanked him as he went to gather the companions’ horses. Blackwall took his own horse, however, going with Fynn to untack her.

“Handsome place, this,” he said as he stood nearby Fynn, undoing his mare’s girth and lifting the saddle away from her back. “Bad history.”

Fynn couldn’t disagree. Solas had recounted the tale for them on their journey, at least what parts of it Fynn didn’t already know from his childhood history lessons. Those had been favorable toward Andraste and the Exalted March, portraying the last of the Dalish empire as the heathen enemy standing in the way of the coming holy future. Fynn had never been overly moved by the Chantry mothers’ proselytizing, and he was more than willing to hear Solas’s likely more truthful version. Not to say that he didn’t have a bias, but he was curt and factual about it rather than coating it in Chantry lore.

Once allies in the first Exalted March against Tevinter, Andraste’s followers and the Dales turned on each other, shuttering trade and diplomatic relations until it devolved into war. The Dalish mounted strong resistance, but after Halamshiral fell, there was little left to defend. The Exalted Plains were their last stand. Vastly outnumbered, many of the elves were slain, reducing their once great numbers to those few who were then sent to the Alienages or retreated into the scattered clans that now wandered.

It was a sorry end to a noble empire. Solas spoke of it as if he had been there, claiming that it was only memories from his dreams in the Fade. Fynn wasn’t so certain, but he had no true cause other than his gut instinct to disbelieve him.

“The present isn’t much better,” Fynn said to Blackwall.

Blackwall grunted. “A fair assessment. You’d think that Orlais would be better than these kinds of petty squabbles by now, but with the reality of the Game, it makes sense they’re still arguing over titles and nobility. The Inquisition keeps out of that nonsense.”

Fynn glanced at him. “You mean politics? That’s right for now, but if in the future…” He shook his head, eyes on Orlebar’s side, where he was currying him. “It’s hard to avoid political machinations forever. If I die tomorrow, who knows what’ll happen.”

“I don’t want to dwell on that possibility,” said Blackwall. “You’re knitting Thedas back together.”

“Not alone,” Fynn insisted. He ventured a minute smile.

“Aye,” Blackwall said.

They finished seeing to their horses in silence, Fynn tying Orlebar’s halter to the picket and allowing him to lower his head to crop at the grass. He gave the gelding a last pat before making his way back into camp. It was there his heart lifted; Lace was standing next to Nyrine, both of them focused on a map the elf held in her slender hands.

“If we approach from the front, we risk an attack,” Lace said. “The chevaliers might not hold back, even if we’ve got the Inquisition banner and a flag of parlay on display. And don’t get me started on how to track down the Freemen.”

“Bad news?” Fynn asked, approaching them.

Lace looked up, the lines of concern in her face melting away at the sight of him. “Fynn,” she said. Nyrine gave no outward sign of disapproval at her informality.

He used her title, though, out of respect for her wishes to keep mum on her given name: “Scout Harding. It’s good to see you.”

Nyrine rolled up the map, backing away a step. “We’ll talk again later, ser,” she said to Lace. A salute for Fynn before she retreated.

“Walk?” Fynn asked.

Lace nodded, both of them leaving the confines of camp to seek some solitude on the far side of the clearing. There, Fynn knelt and took her into his arms. She clung to him with startling fervor.

“Thank the Maker you’re safe,” she said. “When I heard what happened in the Fade, I thought we might have lost you.”

“It was a near thing,” said Fynn as he stroked her back. “Hawke saved us.”

Lace was mourning. “A champion to the end. It was an honor to know him. How’s Varric?”

“Not well,” Fynn replied, “but he’ll overcome it. He said he’s already started on a coda to the Tale of the Champion, citing Hawke’s legacy. He’ll do him justice.”

“I’m sorry for him,” said Lace.

“As am I.”

She raised her fingers and laid them against Fynn’s cheek. “I was always concerned for you, even before this, but now I can hardly bear knowing you go into battle every day.” Fingertips over his mouth to stop a protest. “Don’t bother saying I put myself in danger, too. It’s not anywhere near what you do. I’m afraid one day you won’t come back.”

Fynn rested his forehead against hers. “I can’t promise that I will.”

She pressed closer, her hands at the nape of his neck, under his hair. “I know, but I…” She left it there, and Fynn knew what was meant.

He drew her in for a kiss, deepening it after a few soft presses, drinking of her, seeking strength in her embrace.

“Sit with me for a while,” he said when they paused for air.

They sank onto the grass side by side, their hands still joined between them.

“I dreamed of you last night,” he told her. “We were back in Skyhold, standing at the balcony of my quarters. It was sunset, I think, or daybreak. The scant light was falling on your face. You were smiling.”

She did then, squeezing his fingers. “That’s a nice image. Peaceful. I’d like to do it when we’re both back. I’ve never been in your quarters.”

“You’re welcome there.”

“If it was daybreak,” she continued, “does that mean I spent the night?”

Fynn laid his free hand on her knee. “Would you want to?”

Her expression was demure, timid. “If you would.”

“Without a doubt, yes,” he said.

“Oh.”

He smiled down at her, so fond. “Knowing that, I certainly hope I’ll come back from this.”

Lace gave him a disapproving look. “Not only for that,” she admonished.

“True,” he said, “but it’s a considerable enticement.” He touched her face again. “You’re beautiful.”

There was the occasional flush in her cheeks. “I never thought so, but if you do, then I won’t argue. You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself.”

He chuckled. “If you think so, then I won’t argue, either.”

“I’ve heard you’ve had several proposals of marriage from various nobles in Orlais and Ferelden,” she said.

“Ugh,” Fynn grumbled. “Yes. Four. One marchioness even sent a letter to my father requesting my hand.”

“No!” Lace exclaimed. “She had to know he wouldn’t be making the decision.”

“Apparently not,” said Fynn. “He wrote to me of it, clearly baffled.”

Lace studied him. “So, you’ve heard from your family? I didn’t know you were in contact.”

Fynn chewed his cheek, embarrassed. “I should have written to them long before, telling them I survived the Conclave, but they got word anyway. Stories from travelers rather than from their son’s mouth. The letter about the proposal was the first I received. He wrote that he’d heard of the Inquisition and that I was at its head, but he hadn’t been under the impression it had the clout it did. He was surprised.”

“And proud, surely,” said Lace.

“‘I did not expect such things of you, boy,’ he wrote,” Fynn continued. “Taliesin was always his favorite, the ideal successor. Now, I’ve eclipsed him, but my father still sees me as the unimpressive second son.”

Lace made a disgusted sound. “How could he think that, when you’ve changed the face of Thedas?”

Fynn shrugged. “It doesn’t make any matter to him. He cares only about the bannorn and his legacy there. No upstart, puffed-up Inquisitor for a son matters in the end.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lace. “You don’t deserve that.”

“I don’t necessarily fault him. He’s a short-sighted man. And I never expected much of myself, either.”

Lace covered his hand with both of hers. “Fade take him, then.”

Fynn found himself laughing at her conviction. “Indeed.”

Leaning in, he kissed her again, and she slid her tongue into his mouth, putting his father from his mind, supplanting those maudlin thoughts with desire. Taking hold of her shoulders, he lowered her to the grass, leaning over her small form. She looked up at him with equal passion in her eyes. Were they not under the scrutiny of so many, he might have begun to undress her with every intent to lie with her in that very place, under the sky. From her expression, she would have permitted it.

“Would that we could stay here all evening,” Fynn murmured.

“I’d like that very much,” she said, equally low.

He sighed, his palm against her hair. “This is a strange life we have, but I’m so grateful for you, Lace. And lucky you looked my way.”

“I could say the same,” she told him. “Now, give me another kiss, and then we have to go back. I have a briefing to deliver to the Inquisitor.”

“Am I not that right now?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “Right now you’re just Fynn.”

He smiled down at her and then lowered to head to do as he was told and give her that kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

###  **The Emerald Graves, Orlais**

The trinket caught his eye as she flipped it over in her left hand. She, Fynn, and Cassandra sat under a vine-hung tree in the Graves shortly after they had arrived. It had a silver shimmer, a glint that threw a shard of light into the branches above when the sun struck it just right.

Cassandra was speaking, discussing the refugees from the civil war they need to find, led by a certain Fairbanks, who had summoned them here in the first place. Fynn was heeding her, but the trinket Lace was spinning between her fingers couldn’t be ignored. It looked almost like a coin, but had a mirror’s shine.

“Have you made contact with Fairbanks’ people?” Cassandra asked Lace.

“Yes,” she replied. “There’s a meeting set for two days from now.”

“You knew we’d come in time for that?” said Fynn.

Lace grinned, conspiratorial just for him, for he knew she was aware of the haste with which he had traveled for the sake of seeing her again. “I had an inkling,” she said.

He suppressed his own smile, but Cassanda—a romantic, he had discovered—saw right through them.

“Of course you did,” she said, warm. “We made very impressive time from the Plains.”

“Duty calls,” Lace muttered, not quite making her nonchalance believable.

“Indeed it does,” Cassandra continued, “but not until tomorrow.” She rose, dusting off the seat of her trousers. “If you’ll excuse me, Scout Harding, Trevelyan.”

She left them there, wholly knowing, and Fynn laughed to himself. He’d told Lace about her passion for Varric’s romance serial, which had sent Lace into a fit of giggles.

“You know,” she had said, “I can believe it.”

“Really?” Fynn had inquired. “How? She’s the most pragmatic person in the Inquisition.”

Lace had tipped her head to the side, saying only, “Call it woman’s intuition.”

When they were alone, he pointed to her hand. “What in the Maker’s name is that? You’ve been fondling it since I got here.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at it—opening her palm so that Fynn could see it properly for the first time. It was the size of a coin, but it was polished to gleaming and embossed with Dalish symbols. “I found it in the Plains,” she said. “In an old camp.”

“It looks brand new,” Fynn observed.

“Herrin cleaned it for me,” said Lace. “It was covered in grime when I found it. I’m not sure what it actually is. Aside from elven.”

“Perhaps you could ask Solas,” Fynn said.

She hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

“Why did you take it?”

“For luck,” she replied. “Don’t you believe in luck at least, if not the Maker’s will?”

Fynn peered down at the trinket. “I suppose I do. Most everything is chance anyway.”

Lace nodded. “It’s a fair guess.” She flipped the coin up and caught it deftly. “I don’t know if it’ll actually be a talisman, but I like it. I’ve never taken a memento from anywhere we’ve been. Have to travel light.”

“I don’t have anything much, either,” Fynn said. “I picked up a few pairs of trousers in the past, but everything’s been made to suit me since.” He fingered the nugskin jerkin he wore, imbued with magic by Skyhold’s craftsmen.

“And it looks good on you,” Lace teased. She plucked at her own uniform. “Not much has changed in what I wear since you met me.”

“Do you want something new?” asked Fynn, raising his eyebrows. “You have only to say and you’ll have it.”

“What will they say about me then, hm?” she replied. “Using my influence over the inquisitor to get new clothes. I’d never live that down.”

Fynn huffed, but said, more soberly, “You don’t mind the talk, do you?”

Over the past months, since they had been seen very openly in an embrace in the Western Approach, word had spread like wildfire, some rumormongers more approving than others. The dwarves in the Inquisition had made their endorsement loudly known, Fynn’s favor for Lace somehow uniting both the surfacers and those from Orzammar. He didn’t mind that outcome if it spared them conflict over their origins.

Josephine was utterly charmed, having cornered Fynn upon his return to Skyhold for details. Leliana had been more interrogative, making sure his motivations were good and issuing warnings of how a falling out between them might affect morale. Cullen was conspicuously silent, seemingly uninterested in Fynn’s affairs of the heart if it didn’t affect the army.

Cassandra clearly sanctioned it, but those among the nobility who had been petitioning for alliances of marriage were less amused. More than a few disparaging things had been said of Lace’s common birth being unsuitable for an inquisitor of human noble blood.

Fynn didn’t care a whit for any of their opinions; he had no intention of making a political marriage just to secure favor. He had not thought much of marriage in his life at all. As the second son of the Trevelyans he had no responsibility for it, and had never found a woman he favored enough to consider.

In the tumult of the present, he had not weighed the notion of Lace as a wife. By his reckoning, both of them were far to caught up in the goings on to afford themselves the luxury of even discussing it. And their affection was young; Fynn had no desire to rush into something neither of them were sure they really wanted. He had laid it aside for now, a bridge to cross after the chaos died down—if it ever did.

“It’s not so bad,” Lace replied under the Grave’s foliage. “I’m used to standing out in a crowd, being the only dwarf around Redcliffe while I was growing up. Well, one of very few. There was always talk.”

“I can address anyone speaking ill—” Fynn started, but she cut him off.

“No, I’ll take care of anything.” There was stolid determination there, self-sufficiency. He shouldn’t have offered protection she didn’t require.

“Assuredly,” he said. Laying a hand on her thigh, he massaged the strong muscle beneath the cotton of her trousers. They were both dressed more lightly for the warmer climes of the Graves, and thankfully dry.

“Which side would you take?” Fynn asked, changing the subject. “Empress Celene or Duke Gaspard?”

Lace eyed him skeptically. “What does it matter? I’m not Orlesian.”

“All the same, if you _had_ to choose. Who do you think is in the right?”

She considered, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know about all of the criticisms of Celene, but I suppose some of them are pretty serious. From what I can tell, though, she’s no worse than any other royal leader.” She snorted. “I can understand why Alistair turned down the throne of Ferelden.”

“Leliana and Josephine are insistent that she’s a good ruler,” Fynn said. “But Leliana was a Bard under her and Josephine an ambassador to her court. They might think more highly of her than others.” He hesitated, but then added, “Leliana and Cassandra certainly aren’t unbiased when it comes to Divine Justinia.”

“How could they be?” asked Lace. “They were devoted to her. That kind of love isn’t something you shake off lightly.” She ran her fingers along the scar on her cheek absently. “I don’t think there’s love of that sort for Celene, but Gaspard sounds like a bastard.”

Fynn laughed. “He does, doesn’t he? From his correspondence, he doesn't pull punches and he doesn’t want to make nice with the Inquisition.”

“I’m not surprised about that,” Lace mused. “He’s a renegade, and the Orlesians have been the slowest to accept our influence. Don’t want to change the old ways. Anora’s been more cooperative, hasn’t she?”

“She has,” Fynn said. “But she is more forward-thinking in general. She’s reshaped Ferelden handsomely since the Blight.”

From his conversations with Alistiar, the Warden believed he couldn’t have done as well as Loghain’s daughter had. What Fynn knew of him, he was not so ready to agree. Reluctant leaders were often some of the best; it was, after all, said of him.

“We were lucky to have her,” said Lace. “And still are, of course. Anyway, if I have to pick a side, it would be Celene. Seems the best choice, given less desirable options.” She looked hard at him. “Why are you asking me? Surely it won’t make a difference in how you sort this all out.”

“Maybe not,” Fynn said, “but your opinion matters to me. And you know the troops, the scouts—what they’d approve of me doing.”

She smiled one-sidedly. “Only you would think of them so much. I’m not convinced Celene or Gaspard ever consider their people the way you do.”

“Whatever I do,” he said, “affects them just as much as it does me, so how could I not taken them into consideration?” He believed that to his core.

“That’s what makes you so special,” said Lace. She held out her hands, beckoning for him to come to her. He went, both of them lying down on the soft undergrowth, her head nestled against his shoulder.

“What if I made up a story for your lucky trinket?” he said, one arm curved over her middle. “Let’s say it belonged to Lindiranae herself, the last of the of the Emerald Knights to carry Evanura. She dropped it when she fell at Ser Brandis’s hand in their single combat to end the war.”

Lace said, “Such an illustrious coin, then. Why did she have it?”

“It was given to her by an artisan in Halamshiral when she first visited there in her years of training with the knights,” Fynn said, carried away in the spinning of this tale, as tall as one of Varric’s. “He saw in a vision that the symbols on it would guard her until she fought her last battle.

“She asked him when that would be, and while he knew the sorrowful truth of the fate of the Dales, he didn’t tell her. In fact, he told no one and went to his grave with the secret, long before the Exalted March even began.”

“Do the Dalish have such visions?” Lace inquired.

Fynn hadn’t the first idea, but he continued, “Absolutely, though not many that are so clear a foretelling.”

“I see,” came her reply.

“So,” Fynn said, “the coin fell from her person during the fight and was picked up by a templar in the aftermath. He thought it an ill omen, so he tossed it away. It was carried by a bird some years later and built into her nest. When the fledglings were gone in the summertime, it tumbled down, abandoned again. A child found it then, and carried it to the village, where she kept it in a box until her life, too, ended.”

“This is a very sad story,” said Lace. “Doesn’t make the coin sound lucky.”

“I’m getting to it,” he assured her. “The old woman’s daughter found the box and because she had grown to hate the Dalish, tossed it into a creek, where it tumbled down over the rocks for a long time. When it was finally discovered again, it was during the Blight. A man took it to his home and placed it above the bed of his sick son, who, after, made a remarkable recovery. The man thought the coin blessed and gave it to the boy. However, it fell from his pocket as it had Lindiranae’s that day of the battle. It stayed where it fell, growing tarnished and battered with age, until you stumbled upon it. And now it will bring you the same luck as the boy.”

Lace raised herself up to look into his face. “Well, I hope you’re right. And you could give Varric a run for his money, I think, with that kind of tale. If you ever decide to give up the Inquisition, at least you have the skills to be a storyteller.” A wistful expression crossed her face. “A traveling minstrel, maybe.”

“I can’t sing,” he said. “Or play the lute.”

“You could learn,” she told him. Landing a kiss on his lips, she continued, not without reluctance, “We should get to work.”

Fynn groaned, pulling her in. “Not yet.”

She relaxed into his embrace, saying, “Then tell me another story. Something from the Free Marches.”

He mulled it over, but managed to come up with what would be a very embellished version of a wyvern hunt and the crowning of a king. He began with a flourish, and for a time they lived in the conjured fantasy, before returning to the tasks at hand.


	12. Chapter 12

###  **Skyhold**

Fynn was careful to towel his legs and feet before he stepped out of the bath onto the elaborate rug in his chambers to keep from tracking water onto it. He kept asking the servants to place the tub on the flagstones, but they always set it in front of the tall hearth, where the fire could cast flickers of orange and yellow onto him while he washed. He was thankful for the heat, though, when he was bare; it was never wholly warm in Skyhold.

He had returned just hours before from Val Royeaux, having picked at bread, cheese, and fruit while he was waiting for his bath and then scrubbing himself pink. It was to wash the intrigues of the Orlesian court from his skin; it made him feel almost filthier than he had been in the mud of the Fallow Mire.

He and the Inquisition had managed to narrowly avert an assassination attempt on the empress and settle the civil war between her and Gaspard. It had involved a masquerade that Fynn had been loath to attend, but had all the same. He’d conducted himself as well as he could, even dancing and managing not to trip over his feet after years without practice. It was a relief to be in the simplicity of the Inquisition’s fortress again.

Clean clothes had been laid out for him, but he tugged on only the trousers and a shirt, which he left open at the collar and untucked around his hips. He stood on the rug and dug his toes into the thick weave, finding it delightfully soft.

Evening was swiftly coming on, the sun already sunk behind the peaks surrounding Skyhold. The fire was the only illumination, so Fynn went to the candles on his desk and lit them, gradually filling the room with golden light. He paused to lean against the chair, not relishing the thought of answering the correspondence Josephine had left for him. It could wait for a while, he reckoned. Perhaps until after a long night’s sleep.

A knock came, though barely audible around the wrapping distance between the center of the room and the far door. Fynn called, “Enter!” expecting to find one of his advisers, though Cullen rarely came to his chambers, preferring to meet in the war room or in his commander’s tower.

The door open and shut, the light patter of footsteps sounding up the stairs. Fynn waited, but he was pleased as he found Lace rather than Josephine or Leliana. She was dressed in wool instead of leather and mail, her shoes easy to slip on rather than boots laced up to the knee. Her hair, for once, was not tied all the way up, but lay in a long braid down to the middle of her back.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asked, gaze alighting on the tub, the barely touched food on a side table, and Fynn’s state of undress.

“Not at all,” he replied. Stepping closer to her, he continued, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“We got back two days ago. We’ve been enjoying a bit of rest. I heard you managed to end a civil war.” She was smiling.

“By the skin of my teeth, yes,” Fynn said. The pressures of the past weeks fell away as he looked at Lace, and he went to her, sinking to his knees. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“You, too,” Lace said, stroking a hand over his damp hair.

He tipped his head and kissed her, her lips a homecoming. She embraced him, arms around his neck. She was warm to the touch, her cheeks smooth under his palms.

“Maker, I’ve missed you,” he told her, his brow pressed to hers. “Have you been well?”

“Hale and hardy,” she replied. “Even if I missed you as well. Is it foolish to be more worried about you in the Winter Palace than the wilds?”

He laughed airily. “No, I think it’s quite reasonable. I’m not a great player of the Game. Glad to be rid of the place.”

“Will you tell me about it?” she said. “I’ve heard it’s stunning.”

“I prefer the view here,” Fynn murmured.

Lace wrinkled her nose. “Are you this good with all the court women?”

He kissed her lightly. “They don’t hold a candle to you.” Standing, he drew her toward the bed, where he gestured for her to sit. “I’d like something soft to lie on right now,” he admitted. “Will you join me?”

She wet her lips, seemingly weighing the offer, but then came to the bedside and crept up onto it, divesting herself of her shoes along the way. She had on purple stockings darned at the toes, oddly endearing.

Fynn took the place beside her, their thighs pressed together. “So, the palace. Where to begin? Do you care about architecture?”

“Tell me everything,” Lace bid him.

He spared no details as he described the palace and the ball and his dance with the empress, Gaspard’s treachery. Lace was held rapt, sometimes open-mouthed with wonder at the mess of it all.

“I’m glad I don’t have to even try the Game,” she said when he was finished. “It’s too much for me.”

“And me,” he said. “I’m much happier here, with you.”

Lace turned her face up to him, her eyes bright, and he could not resist bending down to kiss her. She made an approving sound, holding him by the back of the head. It was she who deepened the kiss, inviting him into her mouth to brush his tongue against hers. She tasted of mint, as if she had freshly cleaned her teeth. It made Fynn’s stomach clench with the sudden desire to taste more of her. Easing his lips away from hers, he began to kiss her jaw and down to her neck, the collar of her coat. She tipped her head back to lend him room.

He attentively kissed her tender places: throat and under her chin, up to her ears. She trembled under his ministrations, her breathing speeding up. He recalled the conversation they had had in the Exalted Plains, of them spending the night together when next they were in Skyhold. And now here they were.

“Lace,” he spoke into her ear, “do you desire me?”

Her reply came hurriedly: “Yes.”

“Then you’ll permit me to lie with you?”

Again: “Yes.” And: “Fynn.”

At the sound of his name, he drew her to his mouth again, enveloping her with his long arms. She pressed herself to his breast, hands at his exposed collar bone. She stroked there, making him shudder. He needed to be out of his shirt immediately.

Lace released him and began to undo the buttons on her coat, revealing a linen shirt much like Fynn’s. He pulled it up and over his head without hesitation. Lace paused in her undressing to appraise him, touching his chest and circling his right nipple with the tip of her fingernail. He gasped, making her grin with feral delight.

Returning to her buttons, she made quick work of them, shrugging out of the coat, her shirt following, leaving her in a breastband. Her bosom was full, enticing where the peaks of her breasts stood out against the fabric. Fynn brought his palm to each, teasing the nipples with his thumbs. Lace hummed in pleasure, pushing herself into his hands.

Fynn was breathless, growing desperate to see more. The breastband had laces at the back, which he undid to let it fall and be cast aside. His lips were at her breasts then, taking one peak and then the other into his mouth to brush with his tongue. Lace whispered his name again. The pressure in his trousers was swiftly becoming too much; he sought to relieve it, and in so doing, guided Lace’s fingers there, to feel him through his laces.

Her expression was one of want as she began to undo the knots. “Lie down,” she said to him, not without authority.

He did, allowing her to help him guide the trousers down, baring him. He had not put on underthings, at which she cocked an eyebrow.

“Perhaps I knew you were coming,” he suggested in jest. He said nothing more, however, when her fingers curled around him and gave a sure stroke.

She explored his bare body with her hands and lips, as he still wished to do hers. But all in good time.

“There’s so much of you,” she said after a time. “Such long legs.” She stroked down one lightly haired thigh to his knee.

“Do you dislike it?” Fynn asked.

“No! I’m just not sure how we’ll…” She trailed off, sheepish.

Fynn cupped her face. “Perhaps you can get onto me. I fear I might crush you otherwise.”

“I’m stronger than I look, I’ll have you know, Inquisitor Trevelyan,” she said. “But...I’ll do that.”

“Are you ready?” he said, his own blood pumping with need.

She nodded, unspeaking. With care, she knelt over his hips, guiding him to her. They both held their breaths as she lowered onto him, seating herself comfortably. There, she looked down at him, her eyes half-lidded and hazy. He had never seen her look so stunning.

She moved slowly to start, learning his contours and finding the rhythm they both required. As she gain momentum, Fynn wet his forefingers and put them at her center. They rocked together, both rising toward their peak.

As she sat astride him, he recalled the first time he had seen her face in the Hinterlands, back when he was no more than the Herald and she a fresh recruit. They had come months from there, snatching what little time and peace they could find together in such an unsettled world.

He had never believed in fate or the Maker’s will, but whatever brought them to this place, where they were joined in the most primal way, he was thankful for it. None would ever measure up to his Scout Harding, swift and cunning, beautiful and bold.

When she found release, she cried out and tightened around him, drawing him to his climax, too. He was left weak in the aftermath, spent and utterly sated.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her down to lie on him. They remained joined as he went soft, a strange and intimate comfort. He had never done such a thing with a lover before, and he did not wish to pull free for some time yet. “Was it all right?” he asked as he petted her damp back.

“More than ‘all right,’” she replied, “and you know it.” A kiss to his shoulder. “I wish a little that we hadn’t waited so long. But maybe the waiting made it better in the end.”

“When else would we have had the opportunity?” Fynn said. “Other than sharing a tent.”

She hummed. “I wasn’t quite prepared for _that_ level of talk among the soldiers yet.”

“‘Wasn’t?’” Fynn prompted.

Lifting her head, she managed to meet his gaze. “Well, after this, I’m not sure I’m going to want to keep a distance anymore. Would you share a tent with me our in camp?”

He kissed her brow. “Most certainly.”

She sighed, lying back down against his chest. “We’ll be leaving in two days. Emprise du Lion.”

“I’ll be close on your heels, I believe,” said Fynn. “I can hurry us along, too.”

“May I—” She stopped herself.

“What?” Fynn asked.

“May I stay here when we’re both at Skyhold?” she managed, if a bit shyly.

Fynn, eyes closed, hugged her tight. “Yes. Had you not said something, I would have. Consider these quarters yours as well.”

She shifted and he slipped free of her. “Is that bathwater still warm?” she said.

“No,” Fynn replied, “but I can order more for you. Maybe I’ll come in with you.”

He could feel her smile, and that was answer enough.

* * *

It was she who woke him at daybreak and ushered him from bed to the balcony. It was bitter cold outside in the just-dawning light as they stood there exposed to watch the sunrise. But it was just like in the dream he had had: them together at the cusp of a new day, his hands resting on her shoulders as she leaned back against him. Gooseflesh cover their naked skin.

“ _Shadows fall_ ,” Lace recited, not quite singing, “ _and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come._ ”

Fynn recalled the camp in the Frostbacks after Haven, when the whole of the Inquisition had raised their voices. So much faith in a fledgling cause, it had staggered him. Now they were strong, a power in Thedas—one he hoped he was steering well.

A bracing wind came up from the valley, setting Fynn to shivering. “Let’s go in,” he said.

“Just a moment more,” said Lace, staying him. “You can see the stars melting away with the sun, purple and blue against yellow-gold. Imagine that there are dwarves who have never seen the sunrise, living their whole lives underground. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Nor could I,” said Fynn. He shuddered again. “Come, please. I’m freezing.”

She conceded and let him guide her back inside, back to bed, where they came together for warmth. They gazed at each other, chilly hands against chilly bellies.

“ _The shepherd’s lost_ ,” Fynn said, “ _and her home is far._ ”

“Her home is here,” she spoke quietly.

Fynn held her. “As is mine.”

They closed their eyes then and drifted back to sleep. When they stirred again, there were duties to be done, but for that time, they were at peace.


	13. Chapter 13

###  **Emprise du Lion, Orlais**

The sheer volume of red lyrium crystals throughout the Emprise was startling. Varric, who had the most experience with the stuff, was struck dumb by the abundance, and spoke of it as a blight all its own. Red Templars had been mining it, and perhaps even growing it, if the rumors held truth. The protrusions marred the snowy landscape from Highgrove to Drakon’s Rise. And at the center of it was Suledin Keep, where the Templars were camped.

Fynn and his companions—Varric, of course, Bull, and Vivienne—had entered the area three days before and had been cutting their way through the mess of enemies to get to the keep. Now, they were just outside, and it was there they found the Inquisition scouts rather than back at the edges of the region.

Lace, when he set eyes on her, was ashen with exhaustion, her shoulders rounded and stooped. There was blood across her breastplate that nearly stopped Fynn’s heart. He all but fell off of Orlebar’s back to reach her.

“Are you injured?” he demanded, holding her by the shoulders.

“No,” she replied, voice hollow. “I’m fine, Fynn, really.”

He looked up at the looming keep not far off. “You’re too close here. It’s too dangerous. You and the other scouts should withdraw.”

Forlornly, she shook her head. “The soldiers we sent for haven’t arrived, leaving you with no one to back you up in there. You need us to go with you.”

“No,” said Fynn, firm. “I won’t put you in that kind of situation. You’re not trained for it.”

“We’re going to fight,” she insisted. “We’ll have your back, Your Worship.”

It had been long since she had used his honorific, and it struck him like a blow. He didn’t want her or any of the scouts walking into whatever the Red Templars had waiting for them, but he couldn’t deny the aid would be welcome.

“Let them come, Trevelyan,” Varric said, coming to stand beside Lace.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” said Vivienne. “They have sharp eyes and keen blades.”

He closed his eyes for moment, taking a breath. They spoke with good sense and he understood that, but his fear for Lace’s safety outweighed all practicality.

As if she could see into his thoughts, said, “It’s our duty.”

Opening his eyes, Fynn was resigned. He said, “All right. Gather your men, Scout Harding.”

“They’re ready,” she told him, with a gesture toward where the six assembled scouts, including Herrin, were waiting with their weapons in hand.

“Here to serve, Your Worship,” the old cook said, thumping his fist against his breast in a salute.

Slowly, Fynn unlaced the bow at his back and held himself up to his full height. “Inquisition, we march.”

The snow creaked under their feet, the air bitter cold so that their breath fogged around their heads. The gates to the keep were lifted, and they didn’t bother to approach stealthily; there was no place to. A warning bleat of a horn went up from beyond the walls, heralding their arrival and calling the Templars to arms.

Fynn gestured to Lace to stop, drawing an arrow from his quiver. “They’ve men on the battlements already. We need to aim for them, clear the way for the others.”

“We won’t be able to keep up if there are more than four or five,” she said.

“We do as best we can,” said Fynn, stolid. To Harrin and Nyrine, swordsmen both, he added, “Be careful in the charge. Follow Bull.”

The qunari mercenary brandished his double-bladed axe, grinning. “I’ll clear a path, Boss, you can bet on that.” He turned toward the gates, where four Red Templars had appeared, blades at the ready. With a bark of triumphant laughter, Bull surged toward them. The rest of the scouts followed, voices raised in battle jubilation.

Fynn had fired two arrows, hits both, by the time the first clash of steel could be heard. Two Templars on the battlements howled in pain and crumpled. Lace felled a third, his lifeless body tumbling over the wall and landing in a well-trodden patch of snow with a heavy thump and clatter of plate.

The foes atop the walls weren’t overwhelming, allowing Fynn and Lace to advance behind the others, firing bolt after bolt to keep the corrupted Templars from their fellows. Bull was cutting a path with scythelike relentlessness, crowing all the while. Varric was handling Bianca deftly, picking off enemies with deadly precision. Vivienne wielded her staff in frightening arcs of battle magic, forming the blade of the Knight-Enchanter. No matter how bold a fighter you were, you had to be cowed before her ferocity.

They clashed with the Templars, but moved steadily deeper into the keep’s courtyard, the ruins of it offering cover from arrows. Fynn would pick them up and fire them back, even if they were lesser than the ones he had fletched himself. Lace kept pace with him, her bow a lethal force of its own.

A feral roar from within sent shudders down his spine, for it was the call of a troll. It trudged out from around a corner moments later, arrows sticking in it without slowing it down.

“Aim for the eyes!” Fynn called to Lace. She drew her bowstring, carefully aiming. The bolt struck its neck, but it was undeterred.

Its ground-shaking footsteps sent the scouts scattering, its massive club narrowly missing Varric, whose quick dodge and roll saved his life. Bull moved in as retaliation, catching the club and taking chunks out of the rough-hewn wood. Vivienne cast a wintry blast at the troll, chilling it, but it only served to feed its rage. She danced out of its path just in time to avoid a snarling stomp.

From around the monster, Red Templars were still appearing, and a shadowed assassin came far too close to sinking her daggers into Fynn’s shoulder. He struck her with his bow as she showed herself nearby him, sending her stumbling back. An arrow nocked and fired, he caught her in the chest. Blood burbled from her mouth as she fell to her knees, dead.

Twenty paces ahead, the troll was howling in pain as its right leg buckled under Bull’s assault. Fynn was close to celebrating its fall when it lashed out in a last desperate attempt to defend itself. The blow of its club struck Scout Nyrine straight on. With an awful crunch, she was thrown back, landing like a ragdoll on the snow.

Lace cried her name as a Templar went to Nyrine's side and slid his blade into her belly. If the troll’s strike hadn’t killed her, that sword was her end. Lace made to run to her, but Fynn grabbed her by the arm and held her back.

“There’s nothing to be done,” he said. “Let her go.”

Lace wriggled in his grasp, and he released her. But she didn’t go to Nyrine. Instead, she nocked an arrow and shot it through the eyeslit of the Templar’s helmet. He screamed and collapsed. When Lace turned back to Fynn, her expression was black with hatred. It was terrible to see, but he understood her fury, and shared it.

Ahead, the troll was felled at last, lying defeated in the bloodstained drifts. Both Lace and Fynn stood still for a moment, taking it in, but then a Templar came charging toward them, his gauntleted hands reaching for Lace. She stuck her bow out to stop him, and his sword slashed through it, the wood severed and lame. With incredible adeptness, she pulled the blade from her belt and drove it up through his gullet, a cascade of red running down his breastplate.

Fynn went to her, but she was holding together just fine. She was stunning in a fight, he saw, fearless and inexorable. She abandoned her broken bow by the Templar’s corpse, taking her crimson-tainted sword and moving on.

The scouts, Bull, Varric, and Vivienne led the way through the crumbling courtyard toward its terminus. There, instead of hoard of Templars, was a single figure backed by a jagged crystal of red lyrium. Their fighting force stopped ten paces from him, this strange man, parting to let Fynn step forward. He was breathing hard from the fighting, his heart thundering in his chest, but he moved cautiously, never certain what the next turn held.

“Ah,” the man said, altogether too brightly for the circumstances, “the hero arrives. Or is it murderer? So hard to tell.”

“Who are you?” Fynn demanded. “State your business here.”

“I’ve been waiting for you, of course,” was the cheerful reply. “And lending my most considerable aid to the good Templars here. They’re not so keen on cultivating red lyrium themselves, so I gave them some suggestions.” He glanced at the crystals surrounding them. “They did an excellent job, if I do say so myself.”

Recognition dawned, from what Ser Michel de Chevin had told him of an old and powerful demon residing in the Emprise and making trouble. Fynn said, “You’re Imshael. The demon.”

“‘Choice spirit,’ I like say,” Imshael said. “And I’d like to offer one to you, Inquisitor.” He gestured to the scouts and Fynn’s companions. “These friends of yours are very violent, though I don’t blame them, considering the troll. But not everything has to end in blood. You could choose to resolve this conflict peacefully.”

“How?” said Fynn.

“Don’t trust this creature, Trevelyan,” Vivienne warned. “It reeks of deceit.”

He couldn’t deny his own suspicions, saying, “Speak, demon, and quickly.”

“ _Choice spirit_ ,” it insisted, but then scoffed in dismissal. “Never mind. This arrangement is simple: we don’t fight, and I grant you power. Or riches. Or maybe virgins. Your pick. Then we all go our separate ways with our insides still on the inside. What do you say?”

“Kill it, Fynn,” said Lace, coming to stand at his side. “It was feeding the red lyrium, the Templars here. We won’t put an end to the fighting if we don’t put an end to _him_.”

“Now, now, little one,” Imshael said, putting his hands on his hips, “that’s not called for. I believe I offered some very nice things to your Inquisitor. Much better than a nasty fight, don’t you think?”

Tension showed in Lace’s face as she clenched her jaw, and Fynn knew she had the right of it.

“No deal,” he said. “We can’t let you get away with this.”

Imshael sighed heavily, his shoulders falling. “Then you’ll have to die, I’m afraid.” He raised the staff he carried, but before he could cast anything, or before Fynn could lift his bow, Lace charged ahead, her stout blade drawn. Fynn called her name, but it was too late to stop her.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” growled Imshael. He reached out and with sparks of demon fire burned the sword from her hand. She screamed, dropping it steaming and glowing red at her feet. She had no time to resist before the demon snatched her up by the neck, pressing one suddenly clawed hand to the vein there.

“Stop!” Imshael called to Fynn, who had drawn his bow, ready to fire. “Or she dies.”

Stillness descended in the sunken courtyard, Fynn’s breath a cloud around his head. “Let her go,” he said. “You can take me. We can make a deal after all.”

“No!” Lace managed to say around the hand at her throat. “No deals, Fynn. Kill him now!”

Imshael tightened his grip, silencing her, and Fynn winced.

The demon cocked its head to the side, seemingly bemused. “She’s very afraid, Inquisitor. I can feel the fear coursing through her. But”—he clicked his tongue—“it’s not for herself. It’s for you.”

Fynn balked, brow knitting.

“And the _love_ ,” Imshael continued. “My, my, she loves you more than her own life.” His face darkened in a macabre smile. “Will you allow her to give it for you?”

A strangled, hopeful, and yet terrified sound escaped Fynn’s mouth.

“Oh, I _see_ ,” said Imshael. “You feel the same. Well, I suppose you have yet another choice now. Will you let me go without your power, riches, _or_ virgins—which you clearly don’t want anyway—or will you doom your pretty dwarf just so you can slay me?”

Lace struggled, trying again to speak but unable to do so.

From behind Fynn, Varric said, “Fade take the demon, Trevelyan. Let it go and spare her.”

“We don’t know what it’ll do if it escapes,” said Vivienne icily. “It must die.”

Fynn knew the risk he would take if he released Imshael, and from Lace’s wide eyes and gaze on Vivenne, he thought he understood what she wished for him to do. But he couldn’t.

“Release her,” he said with finality, “and you can go.”

Imshael let out a biting cackle, but dropped Lace. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath.

“Kill it now!” Vivienne shouted, pointing her staff, but Fynn ordered her to stand down.

“A deal’s a deal,” he said. “Go, Imshael, and don’t return here.”

The demon offered a snide smile, but said, “A deal’s a deal. Good luck to you, Inquisitor. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.” With that, he disappeared.

Fynn ran to Lace, kneeling at her side. “Are you all right?”

She gazed wearily up at him, her neck red. “You should have killed him.”

“You know I couldn’t,” he told her, cupping her face. Tears welled in her eyes, and she covered one of his hands with hers. He asked softly, “Is it true?”

She knew what he meant, and she nodded.

“More than your own life?” he pressed.

“Yes,” she replied. “My heart is yours, Fynn.”

Overcome, he wrapped her up in his arms, hugging her to him. She embraced him in return, quietly crying. He assumed it was for Nyrine more than for herself or her confession.

“I love you,” he whispered to her.

The others came around them, eventually helping them to their feet. From his pack, Varric took the flag of the Inquisition. He handed it to Fynn, and together he and Lace hoisted it above the keep.


	14. Chapter 14

###  **The Hissings Wastes, Orlais**

Imagining the once-sprawling dwarven empire wasn’t so difficult when one saw the remnants of their cities. The ruins in the Hissing Wastes, however, had never been a part of the fabled Deep Roads; they were the remains of the only thaig to have been established above ground. It was thousands of years ago when Fairel had founded it, and it had crumbled nearly to nothing, but Fynn could envision its size and splendor from its golden age.

“This place was once home to towering trees,” Solas had told him as they rode into the desert, “but the sands encroached and swallowed up the green.”

And great sands there were: dunes stretching as far as the eye could see, bumps along the horizon. After the aridness of the Western Approach, Fynn had not been keen on returning to a sandy place, but it was cooler and more hospitable in the Wastes—its name notwithstanding. As they were riding, a huge moon hung over the landscape, casting the land in silver-white.

The Inquisition’s tents were already pitched, a fire crackling at the center of their humble circle. Fynn reined Orlebar to a halt, patting his neck in thanks for the smooth ride. As he had become accustomed to, the elven scout of narrow frame and face came to collect the gelding and untack him.

“I thank you,” Fynn said. “As always.”

The boy nodded in deference, leading Orlebar toward the picket.

Immediately upon hearing Fynn’s voice, a diminutive figure appeared in the firelight. Heart leaping at the sight of Lace, Fynn approached and knelt. They embraced.

The scouts had stayed a few days in the Emprise after Suledin had been taken by the Inquisition. More than anything, it had been a respite to stop and honor fallen Nyrine. Fynn had been in attendance when they had buried her, though Lace and the scouts had gone by themselves to collect her body and dress it for the funeral. He’d stood in solemn silence while Lace spoke in her honor and gave Dalish blessings.

Fynn had not pressed Lace to stay with him in those days—a place having been prepared for him in the keep—but she had, joining him in his bed for the frigid nights. They’d lain together in comforting need as well as a passion, learning each other’s favored touches and places that gave the greatest pleasure. She was ticklish on her feet, Fynn learned, and she shuddered when he kissed the crooks of her elbows. They laughed at times and were more focused in others. Fynn had never been so glad for any lovemaking in his life as he was for hers.

They’d parted on a kiss, Lace bound for the Wastes and Fynn for a stint at Skyhold to make nice with their allies. Promises had been made, affection whispered, with all of their companions looking on. Neither of them cared a whit for the audience; in their eyes, they were alone.

“Hello, love,” Fynn said as he held her in the sand-swept camp. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she replied, speaking hushed into his ear. “How was your journey?”

“Long. Tiring.” He pulled back so he could stroke her cheek. “I’m so glad to see you.”

She smiled, touching the sturdy collar of his jerkin. “I’ve missed you.”

He kissed her then, making known his own longing to have seen her. She went happily into it, holding his face between her small, warm hands.

“ _Ahem_.”

Fynn glanced up to see old Harrin grinned at them, thumbs hitched in his belt. “Care for any refreshment, Inquisitor? I’ve got a dram of whiskey with your name on it.”

“Have you?” asked Fynn. “Enough for all of us?”

“I reckon so. Unless you brought that Iron Bull with you. My cup is but a thimble to him.”

Fynn laughed, getting to his feet. “No, he and the Chargers are working elsewhere. But I could certainly use that drink. Anyone else?”

Solas, who stood nearby, declined, but Cassandra accepted and took a prim sip. Upon being poured some of the spirits, Cole sniffed at it dubiously.

“Old barrels in deep earth,” he said in his unusual, floating way. “A caring hand lent to each batch.” He took a drink and coughed.

“Steady on, lad,” said Herrin, patting him on the back. “You’ll get a taste for it the more you have.”

“Will I?” Cole mused, seemingly unconvinced. But he drank again anyway.

They had gathered around the fire, cups in hand. Fynn noted that Nyrine’s place had not been filled, leaving only five scouts. How, now, did they travel in pairs? He would not ask. Lace would have addressed it already; it was not his burden to bear.

Fynn sipped at his own whiskey, letting it warm his gullet and belly. Lace was beside him, and in passing he laid a hand on her knee. She put her own hand over his.

“Have you seen many of the ruins here yet?” he asked her, though he knew the other scouts were listening, too.

“A good deal of them,” she replied. “They’re impressive. For ruins, I mean. This must have a been a great thaig once upon a time. I might even have be willing to live here.”

Fynn said, “Because it was above ground?”

She nodded. “You know me well. I need the sky and the sun.”

“It would’ve been a wonder,” said Harrin, using his round middle as a rest for his cup in his grasp. “You dwarves shaped a whole land under this one, or on it, in this case. Remarkable thing, that. Too bad the darkspawn cocked it all up.”

“To put it mildly,” said Solas.

Lace turned her gaze out to the open desert, her cup held lightly at the level of her chest. “Maybe I’d be a prouder dwarf if I had been raised in a place like this. I’d feel some connection to the stone or the ancestors.”

“You’re not worse off for being a surfacer,” said Fynn. “No more so than I am for being a bann’s second son, or Cassandra in a long line of Navarran lineage. We don’t cling to kin and tradition, but it doesn’t hinder us.”

“To that, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, raising her whiskey.

Fynn toasted and drank, emptying his cup. Harrin was quick to fill it again from the cloudy bottle he had pulled from his provisions.

“It does no harm to wonder what might have been,” Solas offered. “I have dreamed of battles that did not happen, lives unlived—simply the conjecture of those who might have enjoyed them. The world is filled with uncounted unfulfilled possibilities.” He inclined his head toward Lace. “Even if you were raised in a thaig, Scout Harding, you might have taken up the same work in life, or perhaps not.” To Fynn: “You, Inquisitor, would surely not be here had you been born your father’s heir.”

“And I don’t regret that,” Fynn said firmly.

“Nor should you,” said Solas. “None of us can imagine what we might have made of Seeker Pentaghast was she ruling in Nevarra.”

Cassandra scoffed. “Maker preserve me from _that_.”

Solas gave her a thin smile. “Indeed.”

“What of you, master elf?” asked Harrin. “What do you think you would have been in a different life?”

At that, the smile sharpened, Solas’s eyes flashing with what Fynn thought was malice. “I have lived many lives through my dreams,” he said, and nothing more.

For a time they were quiet, drinking and looking into the licking flames of the campfire. Lace’s fingers shifted over top of Fynn’s, and he leaned over to her to kiss her temple.

“I have something to show you,” he said.

She peered at him, curious. “Oh?”

He got to his feet, holding her hand still and drawing her up with him. “Come,” he bid her, and she allowed him to lead her toward where the horses were placidly munching grain.

Orlebar’s saddle had been laid to the side of the picket and covered with the saddle blanket, but next to it was a wrapped package Fynn had brought with him from Skyhold. He had commissioned Harritt to fashion it directly when he’d arrived, requesting Dagna’s expertise as well. The result had been far more than he had hoped, and he held it out then to Lace.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Something to replace what was lost,” he replied.

Her red eyebrows drew together, but she began to unwrap the sackcloth, letting it fall at her feet when the gift inside was revealed.

The bow was an elegant recurve, its body thicker than hers that had been destroyed at Suledin, but not overly so, and it was carved with twining roses like those on Fynn’s quiver: some just buds and others in full bloom.

“It bears an enchantment for accuracy,” Fynn told her, “though you don’t need that. It’s ironbark, the wood of the Dales. Stronger and surer than any other tree.”

She ran her fingers over it, struck. “Fynn, this is stunning. You had this made for me?”

“Yes,” he said. “You needed a new one. Do you like it?”

“I love it!” she exclaimed, holding the bow in one hand and throwing her other arm around his waist.

Laughing, he held her close, cupping the back of her head, over the plaited hair. “I’m glad. I hope it serves you well.”

She spoke against his stomach: “You didn’t have to do this. I could have made do with a plain hunter’s bow. This is finer than anything I’ve ever owned.”

“It suits you,” Fynn told her. “ _You_ are just as fine.”

Her flush was pink and utterly endearing. “Do you have a string?”

From his saddlebag, he took a packet of five strings. “I made them myself. If you don’t care for them, you can get others.”

She took one of the looped strings out, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. “This is beautifully done. They’ll be perfect.” She came to him again, reaching up to lay a hand over his heart. “Thank you.”

Taking her hand in both of his, he knelt. “If I can’t be with you and keep you safe, then this will be your guard. I know I shouldn’t fear for you, but I can’t help it.” He smiled sorrowfully. “You fear for me.”

“I do,” she said. “With Corypheus still out there, I’m afraid for you every day.”

Fynn pressed his brow to hers. “There’s nothing to be done but what we must, but I promise that I’ll take care, if only to meet you again in some other desert or forest or plain. Maybe I’ll have the chance to make love to you in a proper bed again.”

“What a treat,” she said, wry.

“Are you complaining about the way I bed you, Scout Lace Harding?” he demanded, half in jest.

She laughed, “No, Inquisitor Trevelyan, you bed me very well.”

He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “I’d like to tonight, if you’ll have me.”

“In camp? We’ll have to be very quiet.”

“I can be quiet,” he said, kissing up to her jaw. “I can be however you wish me to, if you’ll let me into your bedroll.”

She drew in a sharp breath as he nibbled her earlobe, saying, “Are you drunk? You’ve never talked like this before.” 

His head wasn’t dizzy with drink, but there was a certain lightness about it. “Not yet,” he replied, “but it does make me a bit amorous.” A kiss to her cheek, her nose, and then her lips.

“You don’t say,” she said against his mouth. “Well, then let’s get you another dram.”

He drew back enough to meet her eyes. “We can’t go to bed?”

She laid a hand against his cheek. “The night is still young, and I’m thirsty. Come on, Fynn. Let’s toast to our health. And I can show them my bow.” She held it still.

Fynn rose, following her back to the fireside, where knowing glances were exchanged among their companions.

“So, she likes it, then?” said Cassandra, gesturing to the bow in Lace’s left hand.

“You knew?” asked Lace.

Cassandra smiled. “I can’t resist a romance, Scout Harding.”

Lace grasped the bow, turning to Fynn. “Apparently neither can I.”

He yearned to touch her, but stayed his hand. He’d have ample opportunity later.

“Another round, lads?” Harrin said, brandishing the bottle.

Nine cups were held eagerly out.


	15. Chapter 15

###  **The Arbor Wilds, Orlais**

At the crest of the hill they had ridden to, Fynn looked out over the encampment of the Inquisition’s army. Tents were pitched and fires burning, two thousand soldiers gathered to cut his path through the Wilds to where Corypheus was bound: an elven temple where Morrigan said an eluvian waited. Scouts had come weeks before, feeding information to Leliana to shape Cullen’s tactics. Josephine had brought allies, including, if word was true, Empress Celene herself.

Fynn had ridden with Morrigan, Cassandra, Sera, and Dorian for the past week from Skyhold. Dorian had no particular fondness for an apostate mage who looked as wild as the magic she wielded, but he brooked no protest when Fynn chastised him for his snarkiness upon their leavetaking. Fynn himself brought Morrigan only out of necessity, for she knew far more about the workings of the eluvian than anyone else among the Inquisition’s forces. He was careful to watch her, remembering tales of her from the days of the Blight. True, she had served with the Hero of Ferelden, but this was a different time and Fynn did not have Brosca’s trust.

“We should make haste,” said Cassandra, sitting uneasily on her horse’s back. “We must have a report of what we’re to face. Cullen will be waiting, and”—she cut a glance at Fynn—“Scout Harding.”

It had been two fortnights since he had last seen her, and he ached to, but the levity of their night in the Hissing Wastes was gone; the reality of Corypheus could not be put aside, even for an hour. The ancient magister’s quest went on more relentlessly with the day, and he had to be stopped. This, Fynn hoped, was their chance to do it.

“Walk on, my friend,” Fynn said to Orlebar, who picked his surefooted way down the hillside with a snuffling breath.

Those soldiers who milled about the camp made way for their mounted party, saluting. When they rode past where the Chargers were seated around a cask of ale, they were toasted by the merry mercenaries, Bull the loudest and most enthusiastic of all. Fynn waved, knowing he could stop to visit with them before nightfall. He’d need the drink, he was sure.

An elaborate pavilion had been erected not far away, under the shade of a towering birch. It was heavily guarded, and Fynn could only assume it was where the empress awaited him for his audience. There was no escaping that. Celene was the pinnacle of Orleasian fripperies, which he took no joy in. Still, her allegiance and chevaliers might make all the difference against the Red Templars in the Wilds.

“Inquisitor!” called Cullen from nearby, a map in his hand and his heavy cloak, for once, absent.

Fynn urged Orlebar into a trot, hurrying to join Cullen. Before him, Orlebar stopped, and Fynn dismounted. “Commander,” he said. “What news?”

“We’re making good inroads,” Cullen replied. “The Red Templars are resisting, but we’re pushing them back. Your way will be clear come the morning.”

“Thank you,” said Fynn. “Your men have done the hardest task for us.”

“We’ll see about that when we find Corypheus,” said Dorian, stepping down from his mare’s back and giving her a pat.

“Has he been seen?” asked Fynn. “Or the dragon?”

Cullen shook his head. “No, but we’re keeping our eyes out for him.” He scowled. “Not the kind to fight his own battles.”

“The Templars are little more than a distraction,” said Morrigan. “They’re to keep us busy while he finds the greater weapons.”

“Those are men’s lives you’re talking about,” snapped Cassandra.

Morrigan turned a cool gaze on her. “I’m aware of it. But it’s the truth.”

“We’ll risk as few as possible,” said Fynn. “I leave at first light for this elven ruin where the eluvian is. I won’t waste time or lives.” To Cullen: “I assume the battle is done for the day?”

“Indeed, Inquisitor. We are tending to the wounded and laying plans for tomorrow.”

Fynn nodded. “Then I leave you to it.”

He took Orlebar by the reins, guiding him away. As if conjured, the elven scout appeared. Any number of grooms could have done the duty, but here was a familiar face. Fynn was glad for it.

“Your Worship,” the scout said, “I’ll take him.”

Orlebar went happily, and Fynn asked the boy without hesitation, “Where is she?”

The boy pointed toward another tall tree, where Lace was lingering, her fine bow at her back. Fynn thanked him and they parted ways.

“We’ll see you shortly, Inquisitor,” said Cassandra as she headed in the opposite direction, Dorian and Sera trailing along. Sera muttered something about “big soppy sweethearts,” but Fynn couldn’t make it all out.

“You made it,” said Lace when Fynn was at her side.

He knelt to hold her, kissing her mouth with fervor. “We’re nearing the end of this, I hope,” he said when they paused for breath. “It might be our chance to finally face Corypheus down.”

Lace’s expression held concern, wholly unconcealed. “You’re following the witch?” she said, stern.

Fynn inclined his head. “I don’t have much other choice. You don’t like her?”

“I’ve spoken to her a few times at Skyhold. She serves her own interests, not those of the Inquisition. If she’s helping us, it’s to her own ends.”

“I suspect that, yes,” said Fynn. “It’s not to say she’s without loyalty, but I don’t see it here. I’ll be careful with her in the morning.”

Lace was frowning still. “I wish I could go and watch your back.” A pause, a searching look, and then: “But you don’t want me there.”

Fynn brushed the backs of his knuckles against her cheek, knowing it was affirmation enough—his concern for her safety.

“We’re not leaving until you’re back,” she said. “The brunt of the scouting’s done, but we don’t have anywhere else to go. Leliana’s entire focus is here.”

“That’s unlike her,” said Fynn. “She’s always looking at every possibility.”

Lace lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Her agents are still out there, but here is where the war is.”

Fynn breathed out, long and heavy, but when Lace touched his face, lifting it, he saw her smiling. He said, “Stay with me tonight.”

“Where else,” she asked, “would I go?”

* * *

Celene requested Fynn’s presence for dinner, sharing her lavish meal with him. He ate little, his stomach too used to simpler fare—soldier’s provisions. She spoke of the situation in Orlais and her gratitude for his support yet again. It was niceties he didn’t wish to hear, and was relieved to make his escape after nightfall.

His tent had been erected at the western side of the Inquisition’s camp, and as he walked past the other soldiers, he acknowledged them. He hadn’t been afforded the opportunity to share a mug of ale with the Chargers, but he was too tired then to go to them for a nightcap. Instead, he ventured to his tent, where Cassandra sat by the fireside, Lace next to her.

Fynn paused to take in the strangely calm tableau: two fighting women, both bearing scars and armed to the teeth; but their posture was relaxed, and Cassandra was giving one of her rare smiles as they conversed. He almost didn’t want to interrupt them.

“Good evening,” he said anyway, as he approached.

“Trevelyan,” said Cassandra. “Did the empress feed you well?”

“Too well,” he replied. “I want nothing more than to lie down.”

Cassandra glanced between him and Lace, her smile widening. “Yes, well, I must rest myself. Get some yourselves, if you can.” There was teasing suggestion there, but neither Fynn nor Lace were embarrassed. They had ever intention of enjoying their quiet intimacy, before they returned to their duties come the morn.

As Cassandra took her leave, Lace rose, too. No words were needed as she went into Fynn’s tent, him following and tying the laces of the oiled canvas behind them.

The undressing process took time for two hunters in leathers and armor, and they did it quietly, setting their incongruous bows side by side at the entrance to the tent. As Lace began to take down her hair, Fynn asked, “May I do that?”

She stopped, hands poised, but said, “All right. Sit behind me.”

He tugged his boots off and went to her, seating himself cross-legged at her back.

“There are only a few pins,” she told him. “Don’t pull too hard on them, if you please.”

Fynn studied her hair, looking for the pins that were seemingly hidden. He caught sight of one, though, by her ear, which he took lightly between his thumb and forefinger and pulled free. A length of the plait released, though it did not fall. He continued to poke along her head, slowly finding the pins and removing them.

“My mother taught me to fix my hair like this,” Lace said has he worked. “Hers fell to her calves. She had never cut it more than a finger joint’s length at the bottom. And that was only to insure it grew healthy.”

“Would you grow yours so long?” Fynn asked.

She laughed lightly. “No. It’s horribly impractical. Mine’s long enough as it is. Considering how easy it is for Cassandra, I’ve considered lopping it all off.”

“Don’t,” said Fynn. The braid had come down around her neck now, he was undoing the thong that held it all together, combing his fingers through the thick strands. He amended, “Not that I have any right to say that. It’s your hair.”

“Your opinion matters,” she said. “I’d, ah, like you to find me pleasing.”

He moved her hair to the side, kissing her neck. “I’d do that no matter how short or long.” A whisper in her ear: “I want to make love to you.” It earned him a shiver through her small form.

“I want that, too,” she said. More teasingly: “So hurry up with the plait.”

He chuckled and slid back. “You’d best do that. I’ll get undressed.”

She moved her clever fingers to her hair, releasing the last of the braids so that it pooled behind her. It gave her a tranquil look that soothed Fynn, stirring his yearning to hold her. He removed his clothes in short order, and she hers, until they were bare and lying across from each other on the bedroll. Fynn cupped her left breast, his thumb circling the peak.

“I’m a lucky man,” he murmured, “to have such a beautiful woman in my bed.”

“Would that it _was_ a bed,” she said, half-smiling. “But it doesn’t really matter, as long as you’re here.”

Fynn scooted in and kissed her until she parted her lips for him, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to touch hers. She was a keen kisser, and it made his blood burn. He was already hard and ready, but he took his time, making sure to pleasure her in kind. Kissing her neck and then down, he parted her legs to settle between them. He pressed his lips there, making her sigh.

She made soft sounds as he attended to her, his hands at her breast while his mouth was busy. The reach was easy, and it drove her wild. Still, she did not cry out for the sake of preserving some modesty in a shared camp, even when she tipped over into ecstasy, her fingers fisted in his hair.

“Come here,” she said when she had spiraled down, and he eased up her body to kiss her again.

She rolled him onto his back, sitting astride him as they had learned they both preferred. He could see her and touch her, and he didn’t crush her with his greater weight and size. She started slowly, her body enveloping him with each rise and fall. He reveled in her warmth, hands at her hips, mesmerized by her loveliness.

It didn’t take him long to rise to her, to lose himself in the sensation. When it was over, she lay down on top of him, pressing kisses to his chest.

“I didn’t think I’d love like this,” she said quietly. “I had never sought it out.”

“Nor had I,” said Fynn, stroking her back. “But you are so dearly loved, Lace. I will keep you for as long as you’ll have me.”

She lifted her head to look him in the eye. “What if that is a very long time?”

He smiled at her, running his palm over her fiery hair. “I’m yours.”

“Be careful tomorrow,” she said. “And come back to me.”

He could make no promises, but he held her tightly until they both slipped into sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

###  **Skyhold**

It was in a daze that Fynn returned after his final confrontation with Corypheus and his dragon in the Valley of Sacred Ashes. The Guardian of Mythal had appeared to aid him, the gift of his draught from the Well of Sorrows, and together they had vanquished both dragon and magister. There was truly nothing left when it was over, save for the disbelief at the end having come. Cassandra had helped him to his feet, his companions seeing him back to half strength—enough to mount faithful Orlebar and ride to Skyhold.

Now, he was ascending the grand staircase of the fortress, the cheers and elation of the Inquisition ringing in his ears. Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana were waiting at the landing, and when he arrived, they bowed in honored deference. He wished to return the gesture, but held himself tall.

“We’re glad to see you in one piece, Inquisitor,” said Josephine. “Welcome home.”

Leliana turned her eyes toward the doors of the fortress, saying, “And there is someone else who has been waiting for you.”

There, at the threshold, was Lace. Upon seeing her, Fynn dashed past his advisers and met her halfway up the stairs, enfolding her in his arms. His love for her woke him from his post-battle stupor, and he felt the earnest lightness of relief. At last it was done.

* * *

The great hall was filled to the brim the next afternoon, fires crackling in the braziers and the fragrance of roasted meat and spiced wine floating through it. There were celebrations being held all over the fortress and beyond, where the troops were camped, but those faces most familiar to Fynn were gathered in the hall, turned out in their finest.

He had donned the red jacket and sash he’d worn at the Winter Palace, and admiring gazes followed him as he moved among his friends and allies. He’d tied his hair at the base of his neck, and he had a cup of wine in his hand.

“Well, Trevelyan,” said Varric, who had come away from the hearth where he tended to linger and stood beside him, “we managed to save the world and look good doing it.”

Fynn chuckled. “We _did_ look damn good, didn’t we?”

“Ha!” Varric barked, clapping him on the lower back. “We sure did. The story this is going to make… I’m going to sell thousands of books.”

“Don’t embellish too much,” Fynn warned.

Varric scoffed haughtily. “Where’s the fun in that?” Raising his cup of wine, he sauntered away.

Fynn stared after him until he had been swallowed up by the crowd. In his place came Cassandra, who was still in leathers, though her breastplate was absent.

“Seeker,” Fynn said. “Have you had the chance to rest up?”

“Hardly,” Cassandra replied, “but neither have you. It takes almost more willpower to get through these banquets than it did to fight Corypheus.” She glanced around, disdainful. “I hate these kinds of things. Josephine knows it and yet would not let me beg off.”

“You’re a hero,” Fynn told her. “Bask a little.”

“Ugh,” she grumbled.

Fynn smiled at her, fondness growing at her gruff dismissal. “Thank you for everything, Cassandra,” he said. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.”

“And neither would we have without you,” she said. “ _You_ enjoy your basking, Inquisitor. Tomorrow, we start rebuilding.”

She left him there to sip his wine. She spoke true, but he wasn’t quite ready to embrace the coming days. Again, he would be shaping the future of Thedas. He wasn’t certain he would ever be wholly comfortable with that, but at least he had served his purpose. He’d continue to serve.

“Trevelyan,” came a voice from his left. Josephine was approaching, a small figure at her side.

At first, Fynn didn’t recognize her; she wore a gown of green velvet, a golden belt around her waist and hanging down to her knees. Her hair was undone and fell down her back in red waves. Stunned, he managed, “Lace.”

“Hello.” She was pink in the cheeks at his frank appraisal.

“Maker,” Fynn said, “you’re beautiful.”

“You think so? I haven’t worn a dress in years. I don’t know how I haven’t managed to trip over the skirt yet.” Touching it lightly, she seemed uncertain.

“I promise you,” he replied, going to her and reaching down to take her hand. “I can’t look away.”

“You’re quite finely turned out, too,” she said. “No wonder you caused a fuss at the Winter Palace all those months ago.”

He smiled, bowing slightly. “I’m glad you think so.” Her presence warmed him more than wine ever could, from the very deepest parts of him and outward. Whatever trials he had faced since the Conclave, they had all brought him to this point, with his pretty love before him and his friends all around. He could be grateful for that.

Josephine was looking on them sweetly. “You make a fine pair,” she said. “There are going to be many disappointed ladies around Thedas now that the Inquisitor is spoken for.”

“Fade take them,” Lace declared.

Fynn burst out laughing. “I can’t disagree.” He raised Lace’s hand to his lips, kissing it. “Will you walk with me? Ambassador, you’ll excuse us?”

“Of course,” Josephine said, stepping aside.

Attention went with them as Fynn led Lace out of the hall and onto the staircase, where he had held her in his arms after his return. They breathed the cool air of the mountains, side by side.

“Come sit,” Fynn said, guiding her to a step. “I can’t kiss you when we stand.” He raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No. It makes no difference to me at all.”

They took their places on the step, and Fynn held her cheek to bring his mouth to hers. It was a sweet kiss, tender beyond words.

“What happens now?” she asked when they parted.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Anything? Everything? We have a world to piece back together.”

“You’ll be busy,” Lace said. “Perhaps often gone on errands.”

He regarded her steadily. “As could you be.”

She laid a hand on his thigh. “True, and I’ll go where the Inquisition sends me, but is it too much to ask for a few days for us to be here, together?”

“It’s not,” he told her, putting his hand over hers. “For you—for us—the world can wait a while. We’ve earned it.”

Lace Harding, his sturdy scout and dearest love, turned to him with unabashed affection in her face. “For once,” she said, “the world _can_ wait.”

Fynn was smiling when he kissed her, as the celebrations of their hard-won victory went on inside. They enjoyed their quiet and solace in each other under a sky just speckled with stars, and thanked whatever power was listening that their paths had crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful art of Lace and Fynn was commissioned from [DisturbedButGoregous](https://linktr.ee/disturbedbutgorgeous), who can be found in the links and on [tumblr](https://disturbedbutgorgeous.tumblr.com/). Please check out the rest of their stunning work!


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